


It Spreads Bit by Bit

by vroomvroommic



Series: let it happen [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (but not between OsaAka), (but they don't know), Character Study, Kappo chef Miya Osamu, Light Angst, Literature editor Akaashi Keiji, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Original Character(s), too many plant and sky metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28268766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vroomvroommic/pseuds/vroomvroommic
Summary: “Kappo is about the relationship of it all. As people who prepare food, I interpret us as observers.” With practiced ease, Nakamura sharpens the first knife, then begins sharpening the second. “The role of the observer is knowing how to listen to nature. If you really wanna deconstruct that rationale and analyze our style, Kappo implies silence.”Osamu simply listens. "We practice silence so that we observe all the techniques that become available to us. Kappo is a synthesis of these techniques and your own curiosity. It is everything and anything you want.”
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Miya Osamu
Series: let it happen [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2085657
Comments: 18
Kudos: 80





	It Spreads Bit by Bit

**Author's Note:**

> **festive atskghn president:**  
>  If you’re straight ur not allowed to like igor (the album)
> 
>  **rose emoji:**  
>  type this in all caps and it’s like literally a tweet from tyler himself
> 
> ... and that's pretty much how this started. the yearning in the igor album motivated me to write this whole monstrosity. I was supposed to have this done for osaaka week 2020 but LMFAO. obviously did not happen.
> 
> ACTUAL NOTES:  
> -There's multiple mentions of alcohol and its consumption, even references to drinking culture so heads up.  
> -I kept the Kansai ben because the anime gave it the utmost care and i thought it was something i wanted to respect in my fic too (sorry to the tiktok person who hates it)  
> -honorifics make me sweat and the last thing I wanna do is offend anybody... so none of those  
> -if u wanna skip the explicit scene, it's from (“Now, though, I’m thinkin’ [..]) and ends right before (He doesn’t know at what point they make it back to his room, how Akaashi [...])
> 
> update: I come back to check for errors in specific scenes so until I do all, sorry for any mistakes.
> 
> as always, title is from baekhyun's [bungee](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cd2gDjIUszY&ab_channel=BAEKHYUN-Topic)

🍙 🍙 🍙

A woman in her mid-thirties bumps into him, mumbling an apology as she bolts out of the shinkansen car. People in Tokyo always have places to be. The sky outside is dark, sun having set a long time ago behind the Tokyo skyline. It’s even darker than usual, rain clouds accumulating and signaling an incoming storm.

Suna told him to only bring two suitcases because it’d be difficult to maneuver through the train station with anything more, and Osamu telepathically sends him the biggest thanks he can muster. There’s a long line for people using the elevator from the platform down to the station, Osamu biting his lower lip. He used to be an athlete and still leads a pretty fit life, so he counts his blessings and grabs his luggage a bit tighter. Osamu takes a deep breath and begins his trek down the nearest flight of stairs, making sure to stay close to the wall for support. With luck he’s never possessed, he makes it to the ground level with a dull thud from his bags and a sigh of relief. His muscles only burn a bit, nothing compared to the aftermath of having to carry two bags of rice at the same time.

Senses immediately overtaken by the announcements blaring through the station, he stands off to the side to pull his phone out and confirm his meeting place with Atsumu. Osamu’s been at stations across Japan, but none of them are ever quite as busy or as noisy as Tokyo station; he specifically asks to meet up with people at the same exit every single time, but his eyes find themselves reading the directions above the crowd to form some sense of direction. He’ll continue to curse whoever designed this place, anyway.

The JR Marunouchi gate is supposed to be next to the exit he’s looking for, but his sense of direction is malfunctioning with the sea of people walking in different directions following their own directions. Some electronic billboards are blinking through advertisements, many too bright for Osamu’s eyes, so he has to look away.

The recorded voice of departure announcements is interrupted by a human voice: _There are significant delays due to typhoon Lannie. Please follow the Disaster Management Office’s guidelines on further typhoon updates. We apologize for any inconvenience._

No one around him bats an eye, however, carrying on with whatever they’re doing. Atsumu had been petrified of Osamu flying, saying he’d had dreams before where a plane crashed and losing faceless loved ones in the imagined tragedy. Osamu found it freaky that his dreams were that specific, so he had cancelled his flight into Tokyo and opted to take the shinkansen. Everyone else seemed to have had the same idea, however, because he’d barely managed to snatch one of the last remaining unreserved tickets before the website crashed. On the train, he’d always been able to find seats or an open corner where he could stand the duration of his journey. This time, he’d resorted to getting stuck in the space between cars with high traffic as people got off and on. Every time the shinkansen reached a certain speed, his ears rung painfully with static. Truly, this trip had been his worst experience with trains. A part of him wishes he could’ve just delayed his move to avoid this headache.

“Samu!” comes the all-too-familiar yell of his twin, no longer over the phone but _in the flesh_ , bringing attention to the exit he’d been looking for. His muscle memory hadn’t betrayed him much, then, if it meant his feet had carried him here. Walking toward the exit, Osamu zeroes in on the gate with the larger opening so that he can fit both his bags. He apologizes to the people behind him for blocking the entire gate, speed walking toward Atsumu who’s waving his hands animatedly.

A few people are giving him nasty looks, but Atsumu continues with his oblivious antics. “Stop bein’ so loud, jackass,” Osamu warns, but his voice is missing the annoyance it usually holds when regarding Atsumu.

“That’s no way to treat yer twin!”

“Shut up ‘n help me out.”

Outside of the air-conditioned station, the air feels so humid and stuffy it’s difficult to even breathe. He’d felt it on the train platform but being suffocated by the never-ending Tokyo air is a different experience altogether.

“It’s really bad,” Atsumu offers, prying Osamu’s hand off the suitcase’s handle to take it into his own and begin walking toward the loading area. “A lotta businesses are closed ‘cos tomorrow mornin’ is the worst of the typhoon.”

Somewhere in the distance, the sound for the pedestrian crossing light goes off.

“It was really bad on the train, too,” Osamu offers, following Atsumu who is headed in the direction of the parked taxis.

“Ya packed real light… kinda worried. Did ya even have stuff in Hiroshima?”

Osamu laughs at that, grunting when the suitcase he’s dragging hits an uneven part of the concrete. “I did, but I either sold it or gave it to Suna’s family. ‘Sides, if anythin’ is missin’, he can jus’ send it over.”

Atsumu doesn’t reply to that, opting to hail a taxi instead. The taxi driver greets them before opening the trunk of the small car and loading the suitcases into it.

Atsumu smiles, sweat running down his temple and face bright against the illuminating Marunouchi Plaza lights. “Welcome home.”

He’s in high school, ten years ago, picking up a glossy informational pamphlet that lists various schools and their specialties. In front of him, his academic counselor is droning on about what opportunities are available to him, but Osamu hasn’t been paying attention to what he’s been saying for the past five minutes.

As with anything remotely important in his life, it starts off a day he’s pissed off at Atsumu.

“What the fuck was the point of ya doin’ years of volleyball, then?” Atsumu’s grip on Osamu’s shirt tightens, the fabric drawing Osamu closer to his twin.

“It doesn’t make me happy like it makes ya!” Osamu yells, voice hoarse with desperation, with the _need_ for Atsumu to understand. _I want to be happy, too_ , he wants to yell as well, but the knot in his throat makes it impossible for the words to reach Atsumu’s ears.

“Miya, are you listening to me?”

Osamu reels his attention back to the counselor, reflexively offering an apologetic bow. “I’m sorry. My thoughts were elsewhere.”

The counselor seems to take pity on him, sighing exasperatedly (probably from speaking to tens of other students before him and fielding their career questions) before removing his glasses from the bridge of his nose and rubbing it in a soothing motion. Osamu notices the irritated circles left behind by the nose pads.

“Miya, your grades are solid, and you’ve done volleyball for the three years you’ve been with us. What I’m trying to say is that you have a lot of options. Please consider them all going forward.”

There isn’t much to say after that, Osamu leaving with a silent bow and thanks, pamphlet still in hand. His backpack isn’t heavy, but his volleyball duffel weighs unbearably so that day. The walk home is a blur as his body navigates itself on autopilot, but Osamu thinks that the fall foliage is mesmerizing; the leaves are turning his favorite shade of orange, one that reminds him of sunsets like the one painted across the sky, a familiar shade of orange that reminds him of walks home with Atsumu loudly recalling his day while walking ahead of him.

A few of the leaves make a crunching sound below his white practice shoes, prompting him to look down.

Atsumu had been upset when Osamu had told him he would not continue volleyball past high school at the college or professional level. There had been an unnamed emotion wedged deep within his heart after the fight, one that consumed him and made it harder to breathe when he realized his brother could react like that to his decisions, especially one as important as the one Osamu had entrusted him with. He can’t really fault Atsumu, he comes to the conclusion as the leaves continue to rip underneath the rubber of his shoe.

Atsumu is Atsumu: hot-headed, over competitive, and overzealous. Osamu has never been Atsumu, has never truly wanted the things Atsumu chases. It takes him eighteen years to recognize so. Osamu stops lying to himself afterward, and he’s proud that he could at least acknowledge so, despite what the future holds for him at this precise moment.

The crushing reality of a new future, a future without Atsumu’s constant presence, makes the chilly breeze even colder, reflexively making him clutch the pamphlet he’d been holding since the faculty office.

His nails have made indentations over the Kanji for one of the school names, the crimson ink flaking away and leaving only the original white color of the pamphlet behind.

🍙 🍙 🍙

“Yer such a jackass, ya know that Samu?” His twin brother pouts, picking up his chopsticks and digging into his food. From here, Osamu can see Atsumu’s split ends and dry hair that’s been bleached one too many times. Osamu had stopped dying his hair after high school even though it wasn’t a requirement for culinary school, instead because it felt like a chore rather than something he wanted to do. He wasn’t going to be around Atsumu, so people didn’t have to distinguish them anyway.

Atsumu is eagerly digging into his motsuni, the konnyaku between his chopsticks slipping slightly before the twin manages a steady grip and resumes putting the vegetable into his mouth. His own fingers tap absentmindedly against Atsumu’s table, his clenched hand unfurling as he removes his chin from resting on top of it. “So?” He asks, voice inquisitive but a bit anxious to hear Atsumu’s verdict.

“Ya don’t have issues with bein’ a jackass?”

Osamu rolls his eyes. “Now who’s bein’ the jackass?” Atsumu ignores him, plopping another piece of tripe into his mouth. “I meant whadda ya think of the motsuni.”

Atsumu continues to ignore him, exaggerating his chewing because Osamu knows he cooked the tripe to perfection. The silence unnerves him a bit, so Osamu rises to pick up the teapot he’d left by the stove.

When he returns, Atsumu has neatly placed his chopsticks on top of his bowl and is looking at Osamu with an expression Osamu can’t really read despite living half his life alongside the man in front of him. Nearly ten years have transpired since they haven’t been in that living arrangement, though, and this dinner is somehow embodying the nostalgia of it all.

“Here ya go,” Osamu says, more in a manner to catch Atsumu’s fleeting attention, while placing the green tea he’d brewed for dinner.

“Please don’t tell mom,” Atsumu finally says, breaking the one-sided conversation, “but this is the second best motsuni I’ve ever had.”

“Only second to grams, I’m assumin’?”

Atsumu’s boisterous laugh resonates across the quiet kitchen.

A weight lifts from his entire being, this being the first time in so long that he’s cooked for Atsumu like this and the first time he’s made it a recipe from their childhood. Osamu wants to let out a cry of relief, wants to tell Atsumu how much his words mean to him, wants to tell him that for the past ten years, imagining the words leaving Atsumu’s mouth have been motivation enough to get through obstacles he’d find unmovable.

Osamu does not say any of this.

“I’ll most definitely be tellin’ mom about what ya said,” he chuckles, pouring himself a cup of the green tea. Osamu’s own bowl of motsuni remains untouched in front of him, and he’s not quite sure if he can stomach the stew with the butterflies that are currently taking flight there.

Atsumu laughs again, loud, and goes back to eating. The rest of their dinner is silent after that, Atsumu agreeing to wash the dishes as Osamu returns to unpacking his bags into the empty room Atsumu had temporarily offered him during his apartment hunt in Tokyo. If Osamu is being honest, he respects his brother’s space, but part of him also wishes to put off apartment hunting so that they can spend more nights like tonight together. They were bound to fight soon or later, but they were also no longer their eighteen-year-old selves. Hot-headed? That would always be them, but time had strengthened their lack of patience and eroded the harsh cynicism they’d grown into.

Osamu is scrolling through the internet, checking Toyosu Fish Market business hours and a reliable method of transportation to get there when Atsumu pops the question.

“Wanna come with me to the Black Jackals reunion dinner next week?” He asks, sifting through the endless titles on Netflix. “I think ya remember some of the people there, ‘n I think ya don’t really have friends yet so it’s a good opportunity.”

Osamu mulls it over; he thinks about how the owner of the restaurant he’s going to be working for doesn’t need him to start until two weeks from now and how he’d planned to be a Tokyo tourist while looking for apartments.

“Why would I ever wanna share the same friends as ya? But okay,” he finally agrees, and goes back to finding numbers for taxicab companies that are willing to drive him at three in the morning.

“Oh, Miya Osamu.”

“Fukurodani setter?” his brain supplies.

In the tight space of the izakaya, Osamu’s attention shifts toward his twin that’s attempting to hand him a plate of yakiniku for the dark-haired man sitting next to Osamu. He does so, earning him a small bow from the Fukurodani graduate before the man pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Er,” Osamu attempts to reanimate their conversation after a few beers and yakiniku skewers, Atsumu, Bokuto, and Hinata yelling at each other while Sakusa pretends to pay them no mind behind his face covering. “Yer gonna hafta excuse me, but I don’t know yer name.” Osamu points to his head, tapping his temple with his index finger. “There really wasn’t much in this head durin’ high school beyond volleyball.” _And food_ , he wants to add but doesn’t.

There’s a slight flush to the Fukurodani setter’s cheeks; whether it’s from the alcohol or the heat that’s building between all the bodies packed into the izakaya, Osamu wouldn’t be able to guess. Osamu’s caught him in the middle of biting into his yakiniku though, so he waits until the man finishes covering his mouth and chewing.

“Apologies,” a sorry bow this time, “I was under the impression everyone here knew each other, but I don’t blame you for not knowing my name. I’m Akaashi Keiji, and we played volleyball against each other.”

Osamu hums, bringing the cool mug of beer to his lips and taking a sip. He gulps the liquid, eyes meeting dark gray ones. “Miya Osamu, but it seems that you already knew that.” There’s a joking lilt that escapes him when he introduces himself that surprises him, but he ignores it and deems it as nothing more. “I remember the volleyball part. My memory’s not that bad, ya know,” he jokes, but it only earns him a serious nod from Akaashi. A silence falls between them again, the Black Jackals talking animatedly among each other, Osamu putting his memory of high school Akaashi and the current Akaashi together to conclude he isn’t much of a talker.

“Are ya based in Tokyo as well?” he presses on, noting that everyone else huddled around the table is engrossed in their own conversations to pay them any mind even if they wished to join in.

Akaashi seems a bit surprised that Osamu’s carried their conversation outside the realm of formalities, but if he feels any uncertainty, his reply doesn’t make it known.

He shifts the weight of his body from one side to another, moving his torso to face Osamu better. “Ah, yes. I’m currently working in Jinbocho for a publishing house as a literature editor.” A pause while he takes a sip of his water. “I heard from Bokuto that you’re here indefinitely for a job opportunity in your field, yes?”

“Bokuto talks about me?” Osamu smirks. “Is that why ya called me by my name earlier?”

Akaashi has the audacity to blush brighter, high cheekbones turning a shade of red that rivals the neon sign outside the izakaya. _He’s incredibly cute_ , Osamu’s brain supplies unnecessarily.

“Sorry, it was a habit of ours in high school when we’d talk about rival teams… I have good memory and I remember your name. Your spikes were scary, but what impressed me the most were the spontaneous plays you’d execute for your twin,” Akaashi shrugs, eyes shifting down to empty stick that a few minutes ago had pieces of grilled meat on it. He grabs it and fiddles with it and Osamu commits the moment to memory as one of Akaashi’s nervous gestures. “It was incredibly interesting to watch the intensity you put into your plays when your game presence felt practically non-existent.” Akaashi seems to regret his choice of words, because he’s quick to backtrack. “Not that it was a bad thing.”

Osamu laughs at that, mostly impressed with how many sentences he’d gotten out of the man. It’s loud even to his own ears. “I’ll take that over bein’ annoyin’ like Tsumu any day.”

They make small talk, Akaashi telling him about the last five years and how’d he’d been doing manga editing for a publishing company. Osamu doesn’t pay the increasing time displayed on his lock screen any mind, however, too engrossed to care.

“Literature has always been my end goal,” Akaashi confesses, two beers—in between glasses of water, of course—later. The blush from earlier is permanent on his cheeks now. “To be at what I perceived as my end-goal since a young age this early in life… I feel lucky.” Akaashi loses a bit of the edge he’d had when they’d formally introduced themselves, Osamu’s attention momentarily shifting to the table of patrons standing up and thanking the workers of the establishment.

“Hey, it’s gettin’ kind of late,” Osamu half yells the observation to get the table’s attention, competing with Hinata and Atsumu who are two seconds away from an arm-wrestling match. It seems to work because Sakusa is standing up, arms shoved into his track pants’ pockets.

“The better twin is right,” Sakusa huffs, and Osamu can make out a choked sound coming from Atsumu’s direction. “We should head out as to not inconvenience the staff.” Sakusa excuses himself to go to the restroom before they depart, something about maintaining some form of hygiene.

“You’re no fun!” Bokuto yells after him, too loud for the emptying izakaya. They’re not the last patrons in the establishment, but Osamu agrees with Sakusa. The last thing he wants to be is an inconvenience to service workers. “We seriously have to do this more often! I miss you all,” Bokuto admits, bringing Osamu’s attention back to him.

It’s Atsumu’s turn to roll his eyes. “Kou, ya act as if we’re not all doin’ our own things now? Only ya ‘n Shoyo continue to play volleyball professionally, ‘n yer both hardly ever in Tokyo!” Osamu zeroes in on his twin, noting the slight tension in his shoulders. Osamu thinks that if Atsumu is going to admit how he feels left behind, he doesn’t do it now, even if he’s six beers drunk.

“Miya Osamu is right!” Hinata practically yells and Osamu winces because no one takes him seriously. “But we should definitely continue to go out when I’m back in Japan! I have to leave soon, but international break is coming up so we can look forward to that, no?”

Osamu, being the responsible individual that he is, asks for the tab and puts it on his card. He’s not worried about the price of their drinks because he’s confident in his capabilities of haggling people who owe him money.

Taking his phone out to take a photo of the receipt, Osamu opens LINE before addressing everyone again. “Ya can all pay me whenever ya can. I’ll make a LINE group chat ‘n I’ll be sendin’ the receipt there,” he says and sure enough, he’s hitting send before looking at Akaashi.

“Akaashi.” There’s a pause as Osamu brings up the search bar in the LINE app, handing his phone to Akaashi. “I think yer the only person I don’t have on here.” The request goes unsaid as Akaashi carefully receives the phone and begins to input the English characters for his username on the keyboard as Sakusa comes back, and that’s everyone’s cue to start filing out. After returning Osamu’s phone, Akaashi begins to pull his own out of his own bag and Osamu notes the three books inside his bag, the top being a familiar book Osamu hasn’t seen in a while.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” they echo as they leave the establishment, the cold nighttime air hitting their flushed faces.

Osamu sinks into his thin jacket, reveling in slight heat his body is emitting. If he huddles into himself more, maybe his body will trick itself into believe it’s warmer. It’s way too cold for a summer night. His face feels like it’s on fire, but the rest of his body feels like it did during the yearly trips his family would take to Sapporo.

“Let’s continue drinking at my hotel!” Bokuto suggests, chest puffed proudly. “We can stop by a convenience store and grab more things.” It’s a smart idea for someone with that much of inebriated brain, and Osamu supports it especially if it’ll get Atsumu to stop moping around the apartment, reminiscing about his time with the Jackals.

Their weird twin telepathy opts to work at that moment, meeting Atsumu’s questioning gaze. _You should go_ , Osamu attempts to convey with just his eyes but ends up nodding slightly at Atsumu instead. He can’t give the blonde too much credit.

“Count me out,” Sakusa deadpans, walking away toward the direction of the train station. Osamu respects that. “If you want to do something in the morning, I am free,” he adds, but his voice is muffled by the loud wind around them and his surgical mask.

“If they wake up,” Osamu adds under his breath, then looks at Akaashi who is glancing at train times on his phone. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but Osamu thinks he sees Akaashi break a small smile at his comment.

“Akaashi,” he says to get the man’s attention, the three ex-Black Jackals players discussing their next plans in the background.

“Yes?”

“Do ya wanna walk to the train station together?”

Akaashi nods, dark eyes shining a lively midnight blue underneath the Tokyo lights. “Of course.”

They say their goodbyes, Osamu only mildly concerned at how the annoying trio will be making it back to Bokuto’s apartment. He shrugs his thoughts off, following behind Akaashi that has taken the lead after exchanging private words with Bokuto.

The streets are littered with salarymen who are drunk, stumbling on their feet and saying their goodbyes amongst coworkers. His head is buzzing, but Osamu can’t quantify what amount of alcohol it would take for him to reach that level of intoxication.

“Where do you live, Miya?” Akaashi breaks him out of his reverie, following Osamu’s line of sight. It doesn’t seem like Akaashi guesses what he’s observing, if the downward lilt of his lips is anything to go by.

“Ya can call me Osamu, otherwise it’s gonna get confusin’ when yer out with both of us.” Osamu scratches his head, but the action reminds him of how cold it is, so he immediately shoves his hand back into his jacket’s pocket. “I’m livin’ with Atsumu right now. Lookin’ fer apartments in Meguro or Nakano, though. My workplace’s gonna be in Meguro so ideally there so I don’t hafta waste so much time commutin’.”

“Is Miya still living in Ebisu?” Akaashi asks, fixing his work bag from one shoulder to the other. His bag is still open, and _Norwegian Wood_ continues to look at Osamu with its worn-out book cover. Waiting for a response, Akaashi seems to notice Osamu peeking at the contents because he quickly works at the zipper to close his bag shut. Osamu blinks.

“Yup. I don’t know how he does it, though. It’s so noisy, ’specially the drunk salarymen.”

That earns him a chuckle from Akaashi, the old setter resuming their path toward Gotanda station.

“’N yerself, Akaashi?”

“You can call me Keiji if you want me to refer to you by your first name,” the man who is walking beside him rationalizes, and Osamu nods conceding the point. “But I live in Ueno.”

Osamu whistles low, surprised at how Akaashi is still outside at nearly midnight when he should be catching the last train home. He voices these thoughts a moment later with, “Shouldn’t ya be runnin’ ta make the last train? Not a Tokyo expert, but itsa miracle they’re runnin’ this late.”

“It’s all right. The last Yamanote Line train stops close to one, I have time.” A _I’m also from Tokyo_ goes unspoken.

They reach their destination after a few more minutes of silence, taking out their Suica cards to go past the station gates. The station is only one track, so they make their way up the stairs and onto the same platform.

“I didn’t think we would talk again after high school,” _after the nationals we beat you at_ , Osamu doesn’t add. Someone is coughing at the end of the track, the streets still buzzing with people moving in and out. A few salarymen emerge from the staircase they’d just trekked, looking two seconds from passing out in exhaustion.

“Neither did I,” Akaashi admits and it’s strangely comforting. “I’m glad that you’re doing well.” As if deciding it’s the perfect moment to ruin their moment, Akaashi’s stomach growls loudly, prompting Osamu to laugh until there’s tears building at the corner of his eyes.

“I didn’t eat well at the tempura restaurant,” Akaashi admits, and there it is—the nervous fiddling of Akaashi’s fingers he’d observed at the izakaya, too. Osamu chastises himself, deeming it too early to start noticing these things about someone whom he’d just reconnected with.

“Ya didn’t eat well at the izakaya either,” Osamu laughs, but stops midway, idea coming to mind. “Hold on a second.”

Osamu scans the rest of the platform, eyes falling on the small convenience stall at the other end of the platform. He mutters a slight victory whoop before walking toward it without another word to Akaashi. Akaashi seems confused but follows Osamu, nevertheless.

When he makes it to the stall, Osamu scans the refrigerated section for his favorite food he still enjoys making. There’s only a few onigiri left, eyes reading the labels before finally picking up the last fatty tuna onigiri. He greets the cashier, hands them the exact change, and returns his attention to Akaashi who is looking at him, lost.

“Ya can eat this when ya home,” Osamu explains nonchalantly, hand extending to offer Akaashi the wrapped onigiri. “This brand isn’t too bad, ‘n onigiri’s the perfect food when ya just need something in your stomach.”

Akaashi is quiet, thoughtful even, but then Osamu seems the moment something in his brain finally clicks because he lifts his right hand to accept the onigiri.

“I apologize for the inconvenience, Miya—”

“Osamu,” Osamu interrupts.

“— _Osamu_. I’ll try to be less negligent of my own health.” Akaashi’s expression doesn’t betray him, but Osamu thinks he sees a slight glint to his eyes behind those framed glasses.

Not getting a chance to tease him, Osamu hears the incoming clockwise train jingle announcing the approaching cars. Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Akaashi brings the onigiri closer to him, cradling it against his chest.

“What was the price? How much do I owe you?” he asks, offending Osamu a bit at the mere possibility that Osamu would be that kind of person.

“It’s nothin’, don’t worry yer pretty head about it,” he says, and when Akaashi’s about to protest, he adds, “treat it as a gift, I insist.”

Akaashi says nothing, even when the train arrives, doors opening and letting the few passengers off at this destination. That’s Osamu’s cue to leave, the station announcing that the doors will be closing soon. There’s a distinct smell in the air, as if it’ll rain soon.  
“See ya around?” Osamu asks, but he knows the answer to that already.

“Thank you, Osamu,” Akaashi replies, waving slightly as Osamu’s train doors close and the train pulls away from the platform.

His mother and father congratulate him over the dinner table while Atsumu is uncharacteristically silent, omurice untouched.

“We’re actually surprised that you managed to get in without the extensive portfolios other students boast, but congratulations Samu,” his dad says with a small nod, picking up his chopsticks and resuming his dinner. It’s a good response, ideal if his mother’s small smile is anything to go by, but Osamu continues to feel tense, nonetheless.

Osamu steels himself and peers over toward Atsumu, eyes locking with his own. At the sound of his name—whether by their mom or their dad, Osamu’s not really sure—Atsumu tears his gaze away. He’s expressionless, and it pisses off Osamu to no end whenever Atsumu shuts down like this.

He can’t say things went back to normal after their initial fight over Osamu’s planned departure from volleyball. Normal didn’t mean much when in just a few months’ time, he would be separated from the person he had spent eighteen years of his life alongside.

As he mulls the reality of his impending departure from home, Osamu fails to pick up on the conversation his father is holding with Atsumu. Atsumu has finally picked up his chopsticks but isn’t enthusiastically eating away like he normally does. And there it was, wasn’t it? Nothing seemed to be normal these days.

“I’m glad to hear the scouts are interested in having you at try outs. Tokyo has many perspective teams, but I’m glad you’re also considering something closer to home.” His father takes a bite of his omurice, cupping the piece and blowing a bit to cool it down before chewing it. The silence that presides over the dinner table is uncomfortable, and Osamu hates that his home has turned into an environment that makes him feel this uneasy. He hates it even more when contemplates that maybe he’s the only one sitting here feeling this way. Osamu isn’t sure if he should be thankful that he’s leaving soon for culinary school or that his transition into higher education is to blame for the ever-growing rift that’s surfaced between him and his best friend.

“It’s good to see that both our boys are growing into fine young men,” his father continues, and it’s an unspoken ending to their dinner conversation.

If Atsumu wants to say how much he hates Osamu, he doesn’t voice his emotions; he doesn’t say a single word as he bumps into Osamu on his way out of the shower. Atsumu tosses and turns in his bed all night but doesn’t say a word. If Osamu notices that Atsumu doesn’t sleep that night, he doesn’t mention it the day after, bones aching in all the wrong places from staying up all night himself.

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“I think I like the way this one feels more,” Atsumu says, patting the beige leather next to him. He seems convinced, but for good measure, he props one foot then another on the matching ottoman in front of the couch. Osamu merely watches him, eyebrow quirked in slight disbelief.

“Tell me again why we came to the Kawasaki Nitori when there’s one just two train stations away from the apartment.”

When Osamu crosses his arms, Atsumu decides to be preoccupied finding out the couch’s dimensions, reading aloud the information printed on the tag. “Wow, I think this one’s the perfect size for the room,” he finishes, giving his twin a thumb up and a smile that’s surely hidden behind that white surgical mask.

After a few seconds of ignoring Atsumu, the blonde sighs and crosses the distance between them to stand by Osamu once more. They manage to come to a silent agreement to continue walking, even though Atsumu is taking out his phone to type into his phone’s notes the name of the couch. “This branch's got more stuff than the one in Meguro! It’s ‘cos this one’s bigger, I think.”

Osamu rolls his eyes. “Yer delusional.”

They continue to sift through the entire store, picking items they both agree upon for Atsumu’s apartment. “These plates look really cool, Samu,” Atsumu says, picking up one in each hand. They’re very simple, their design purposefully accentuating their wooden material and minimalistic aesthetic. “I want’em.”

Frowning, Osamu takes one from his hand and weighs it, humming as when it proves to be lighter than it looks. “I don’t think they’re very practical. Pretty? Maybe, but I think I can find better kitchenware for ya.”

“Yer so annoyin’ when ya show off yer kitchen knowledge, ya know that?”

Osamu shrugs, windbreaker rustling slightly. “I’m just tryin’ to help ya save money. If ya want to waste it, then by all means be my guest.”

Atsumu seems to mull his advice over because after a minute of silence, he puts the plates back, glare directed at Osamu. “Ya better find me the best damned kitchenware in Tokyo, then.”

A few aisles over, Osamu spots the potted plants section. He’s never particularly had a green thumb, even coming from Hyogo and having friends like Kita. When he was fifteen, he’d tried to nurture a kokedama only to have it slowly wither to death after a couple of months. Osamu had been more upset than he’d let on, had since then vowed to never attempt gardening again. In Tokyo, it seemed nearly impossible to grow a garden.

“Ya should get one of those succulent plants everyone on the internet talks about,” Atsumu says after Osamu presumably spends too much time looking at the plants. “We’re both busy 'n I feel like we’d forget to water it so why not choose one that needs less attention?”

Smiling, Osamu turns his attention toward his twin. “Wow I can’t believe ya actually have a functionin’ brain sometimes.”

Dodging Atsumu’s punch comes naturally, Osamu snickering away toward the succulent section.

“Now that you’re back to living with Tsumu, he’ll finally be having something edible for food,” Suna comments, Osamu’s phone screen freezing for a few frames before Suna’s face appears at a different angle.

They don’t call over LINE as often as they’d like with their busy schedules; it’s mostly Kita or Osamu who take initiative to do these kinds of things, if nothing more for checking up on their friends. Most of the time, everyone is too busy to even get on call and attendance doesn’t go past four of the group chat members. Nevertheless, Osamu finds himself yearning for the few times they can come together.

“Hey!” Atsumu yells from the living room. “I heard that, ya jackass! He didn’t even make food today!”

Turning off the tap, Osamu gives the cucumbers he’d been washing a few shakes to get excess water off. He turns to face his phone’s camera and flashes Suna a smirk. “I’m truly surprised he’s lived this long by ‘imself.”

There’s shuffling behind Osamu, but he continues to make work of the cucumbers before him; he begins by chopping off the ends, then proceeds to chop each of the cucumbers into thin slices.

“Ya almost done?” Atsumu asks, next to his ear. Osamu makes a face but otherwise doesn’t startle, instead jabbing his elbow into his twin’s side. Atsumu wheezes, but doesn’t say anything else either, opting to rub the area instead. In the middle of his slicing, the jingle notifying people on call that another person has joined captures his attention.

“Heya. Can ya hear me?”

“Kita,” Atsumu comes to life, whining so loudly that even their neighbors will probably hear them. “My knight in shinin’ armor! Samu n’ Suna were takin’ jabs at me jus’ now!” Osamu can hear his twin’s pout. “They said I can’t cook.”

Kita seems to be struggling with his phone’s camera; the camera is on him horizontally, but on their call, he still appears vertically. He’s in his room, the same one he’s had since he was young, untouched since Osamu’s known him in high school.

“Kita, I think you’re supposed to unlock the portrait orientation,” Suna offers uncharacteristically soft.

“The wha—oh. I see,” Kita says before there’s audible rustling. Osamu transfers the cut cucumbers into a strainer now, giving them a final quick rinse before dumping them into a clean mixing bowl. As he reaches over for a paper towel to begin drying the cucumbers, he bumps into Atsumu who is reaching over next to him so that he can take Osamu’s phone into his hands.

“Kita, were ya even listenin’ to me?”

“Sorry Atsumu, what were ya sayin’?”

Suna snickers from his end, Osamu mixing the cucumber with wakame seaweed he’d cut prior to their LINE call, finally adding two tablespoons of aojiso dressing. Atsumu launches into telling them about his day, the amount of work his kids (that’s how he refers the middle school kids he coaches) have been putting into practice for a scrimmage match. At the same time, Osamu washes his hands, tosses and mixes the ingredients in the bowl thoroughly before topping the sunomono with roasted sesame seeds.

“It feels weird to see you guys together again,” Suna comments after Atsumu is finished giving them a play-by-play of practice and the twins are sitting at the small dining table tucked in the corner of the apartment walls.

“Yer tellin’ me,” Atsumu replies, stuffing himself with a bite of the sunomono.

“Are you guys having pork buns?” Suna asks, Kita on another call bubble staring at something outside the frame of his phone.

Living up to his reputation as the most annoying shit in Osamu’s life, Atsumu grabs a bun—possible burns be damned—and bites into it savoringly. “And what about it?” he challenges with a mouthful, words muffled, moaning loudly to emphasize the buns’ taste.

Osamu rolls his eyes. “Yeah, ‘Tsumu brought some for the convenience store at the corner. I made some sunomono to go along with them.”

“Yer not invited to have any!” Atsumu adds petulantly, voice rising in pitch, directing the statement at Suna. Instead of paying any attention to him, Suna stops typing on his laptop’s keyboard to look into his phone’s camera.

“Samu, when are you starting your new gig?”

Osamu swallows whatever he’d been chewing, clearing his throat before he speaks. “Next week, ‘n that’s only ‘cos the head chef slash owner is outta the country right now in America or somethin’ like that.”

Kita hums before adding, “He must be very knowledgeable in the world of food, then.”

Taking the phone away from Atsumu’s hand, Osamu turns the inner camera toward himself. “Yeah. My advisor from uni put in good word for me ‘n it just all worked out.”

Nakamura Sosuke hadn’t spent more than five minutes on Osamu, now that the twin had the time to sit down and reflect on their interactions; they’d exchanged maybe five emails, tops, and spent a total of three minutes on a formal interview. He’s an enigma that only asks him what work he’s done under Yamada and how he plans to get to Tokyo. _I’ll have one of my workers send you your schedule. I’ll see you soon, Miya Osamu_ , he’d said before disconnecting from their LINE call.

“The owner is an interesting man,” Osamu confirms, doing his best to not explain the complexities of it all.

“Where’s Aran?” Atsumu asks once the topic has dulled, brushing his thumb against the corner of his lip to get a crumb off his skin. “He said he was gonna join us.”

There’s the shuffling again, Kita’s screen blurring again as the pixels try to catch up with the camera movement. “Apologies. I forgot to mention that he wouldn’t be able to join us.” Kita visibly seems to tense, shoulders squaring. “He’s got practice for the national team ‘n he said it would be runnin’ long.”

A wave of silence reigns between them, the quiet buzzing coming from the refrigerator ringing in Osamu’s ears.

“Oh yeah!” Atsumu finally says, everyone audibly exhaling a breath they hadn’t known to be holding. “Shoyo and Tobio mentioned something about that. Flights were delayed because of regional weather, or somethin’ like that.”

“Tobio?” Suna parrots, clearly just as surprised as Osamu. It’s an excellent distraction from the conversation veering back to volleyball.

“Tobio?” Osamu repeats, lifting an eyebrow. “Since when do ya keep in contact with him?”

Atsumu frowns. “For years? Kageyama’s always been’a part of national events, ‘n back when I was too, we’d see each other all the time. Sometimes even roomed together ‘cos ya know, sexy setters.” More than his smug smile, Atsumu seems genuine and a bit offended that they wouldn’t associate him with Kageyama Tobio. If it stings that Kageyama is still doing what he wanted to do, Atsumu doesn’t let it show. Osamu also knows Atsumu’s never been like that.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t just witness you calling Kageyama Tobio sexy,” Suna steamrolls through Osamu’s thoughts, bringing him back to the conversation at hand.

“Hey!” Atsumu yelps when Osamu grabs the back of his head and forces it down to table-level.

“Behave. Yer crush is showin’.”

Atsumu only gets angrier at that, flailing under Osamu’s grip, hands shooting up to dislodge himself from the position.

Kita’s quiet laughter stops them in their tracks, the older man’s eyes closed into crescent shaped moons as a wide grin spreads across his face once he’s done laughing.

“I’ve missed you all,” Kita admits over connection lag.

_“What the fuck was the point of ya doin’ years of volleyball, then?”_

Those words, however in-the-heat-of-the-moment they’d been, cut deep and left Osamu with nightmares for years afterward. He’d never let Atsumu know, didn’t feel the necessity of guilt-tripping him into some kind of apology Atsumu already dreaded. Osamu knew in his heart Atsumu no longer felt that way.

Still, they were words he’d taken seriously, words he repeated in his brain as the head chef in his first class on his first day of school went on, testing their knowledge of kitchen appliances and tools. For a good part of his first year, he’d felt like an imposter; volleyball had never been something he wanted to do for the long run, but now in culinary school, he felt like his passion didn’t measure up to that of his peers. Many of them had dreamt of culinary school since a young age, training extensively the way he’d done so for volleyball. They had chosen this school as another stepping-stone on the path toward materializing dreams.

Certainly, he’d never felt qualified outside of making a few dishes for his family and Inarizaki teammates. Neither had Osamu ever pretended he was a cooking prodigy of any sort. The feeling always went back to the same problem: Osamu felt he was good at everything he set his mind to, but he never felt passionate enough to follow through with anything.

“So, you don’t feel like food is good enough of a reason?” his third-year professor asks him, Osamu floundering for a response.

“I love food, I love creating food, but—”

“Then there’s no excuse,” Professor Yamada concludes. “You’re an incredibly apt artist. You take influence from nature and cultures, and then synthesize it to near perfection. I don’t understand how you think you don’t belong here.” It’s effortless, the way Yamada manages to put it all so simply.

“You’re wasting time pondering over something that has no use. Instead, look ahead at prospects. If you’re willing, I have many connections around the country. My colleagues would love to have you on their teams,” he says, attention returning to his inventory list that’s to be placed by the end of the day. Yamada marks some things off the list, then adds, “it’s a damned shame you didn’t concentrate on baking arts or you’d already be working for me, degree be damned.”

Osamu laughs at that, and it’s somehow all the reassurance and guidance he needs to finish school and land a job elsewhere in Japan.

His first gig out of college is a restaurant in the freezing lands of Sapporo that specializes in seafood. The restaurant is renowned by locals and tourists alike, making Osamu feel even more obligated to help the establishment live up to its expectations. He learns to get up at four in the pitch blackness of the northern Japanese morning, sailing out to the bays with his peers in search of the perfect oysters. The long days are exhausting yet rewarding, and if Osamu cries on the flight to Hiroshima, his new home for the unforeseeable future, he’s lucky only Suna witnesses it and is there to make fun of him about it later.

Hiroshima is rich in history, both proud and tragic, and the food somehow reflects that in every ingredient, in every plate. The next restaurant he works at specializes in Dan Dan noodles. He learns the socialize with the regulars by name, finding himself asking them genuine questions about their personal lives. He develops a close relationship with the restaurant owners, Taiwanese immigrants who thought Sichuan cuisine would be a great business pitch in a community like Hiroshima. He’s thankful for them and their connections, people who help him further understand Taiwanese cuisine in a place far from the homeland. The best part about Hiroshima is Suna who had been his other best friend since high school. They develop odd rituals whenever Suna isn’t doing professional photography around the city and remote shoots in Western Japan, his favorite still being their baseball nights yelling at television screens in Hiroshima style okonomiyaki restaurants. When the time comes, Suna joins him in crying as he boards the shinkansen when he decides Hiroshima is not his end goal.

After spending a few years in northern and western Japan, Osamu decides upon moving east. In the end, Osamu always knew he would end up in Tokyo one way or another.

Staying in Kansai after college would’ve been a step back, although he’d found Osaka to be another home away from Hyogo. There was no competition for Tokyo’s culinary scene, but Osamu still doesn’t regret traveling around Japan for other experiences. Osamu had thought the move to Tokyo would be more difficult.

“Then stay with me,” Atsumu had stated matter-of-factly, when Osamu had told him the news. “I don’t see why ya should wait to look for an apartment, still in Hiroshima when ya can stay with me.”

In all honesty, Osamu had tried his best to avoid such an arrangement; Atsumu was different after his knee incident, after he’d lost the complete ability to play volleyball professionally. He’d never been one for backup plans, but Black Jackals had kept him as a talent scout. It hadn’t been enough for Atsumu, so he’d packed his bags and left for Tokyo in hopes of finding life after professional volleyball. Osamu hadn’t been surprised when this life still revolved around volleyball, though, landing a job coaching middle schoolers.

“I don’t wanna bug ya,” Osamu admitted, carefully leaving out the fact that he knew of Atsumu’s own struggles while trying to get used to Tokyo.

“Yer no bother,” Atsumu had said uncharacteristically serious and that’s another change Osamu still has to get used to.

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Osamu’s last week as a tourist passes by in a blur, the highlight of it being his day trip to Kamakura where he gets lost multiple times when his phone’s signal falls abruptly.

Right now, though, he’s far from lost, feet glued to their spot as Osamu musters the energy to lift his phone and read the time on it.

_07:56_

The streets around him are fairly quiet despite the volume of people trying to get to work, salarymen walking briskly alongside the cars on the road. Osamu’s ears make out the rhythmic brush of a broom against asphalt, probably a shop owner’s attempt at making their business cleaner.

Before him, the restaurant sits at the corner of a four-way intersection, a short, broken bluestone path leading to the door that’s covered by a blue cloth banner with the Kanji for the restaurant’s name. The vibrant, healthy greenery that surrounds the entrance is a beautiful contrast to the majority ruby and dark wood décor of the outside. This restaurant, besides Atsumu’s apartment, will be his home for the unforeseeable future and the realization hits him unexpectedly.

Finally getting his legs to carry him inside, Osamu pushes the banner so he can enter past the open door.

“Welcome to our establishment!” A sweet voice carries, “unfortunately, we don’t open until much la—oh!”

“Sorry that I am here to disturb you,” Osamu begins, attempting to suppress his accent to the best of his abilities, “I’m Miya Osamu, please take care of me.” He bows formally, standing up to his full height as a short, elderly woman rounds the corner and makes her way toward him.

“Oh! You’re the new employee Sosuke was talking about. Come in!” She waves him over, their height different a bit comical if he’s being truthful. She doesn’t introduce herself, too busy with getting Osamu to Nakamura and he further notes the informality the woman had used in referring to his new boss; she’s either family, or someone Nakamura has known all his life. “He’s just finishing up unloading today’s fresh shipment.”

“I’ll help,” Osamu states, leaving no room for argument. The woman is quick for her age—which is more than likely close to eighty—maneuvering them both through a narrow hallway until they reach the main dining area. Walking alongside her, Osamu is able to witness the attention to detail they’ve put into the restaurant’s inside décor; the walls are white while the baseboards are a beautifully kept cherry wood, a few paintings hanging equidistant on the walls depicting various landscapes of places far from Tokyo. The establishment itself seems to have a capacity of fifteen patrons, the bar area seating high while the corner reserves a private table for maximum five people.

Soon enough, they’re at the backdoor, and Nakamura Sosuke is unloading the back of a mini pick-up truck. There’re only a few things left on the back, boxes of produce and ice containers.

“Good morning let me help you with those,” Osamu states before jumping onto the back of the truck and taking the remaining boxes. The man doesn’t say anything, instead leading the way back into the building and presumably the kitchen.

“Where do ya want these?” Osamu asks, and the Nakamura wordlessly points to a place in the corner that’s above ground level and apt for storing food. From this location, he can take a look into the back of the truck and sees there’re no more boxes left.

The man wordlessly wipes the excess liquid off his hands onto his clean apron, back turned to Osamu.

“It’s nice to finally meet—”

“I come from a very traditional family. My great grandfather was a rice farmer who opened a restaurant, and he made my grandfather take on the business. Naturally, my grandfather forced my father to also take over when he passed away. My father wanted to be a sailor,” Nakamura states, and once his brain catches up, Osamu gets it. Maybe not on a generational level, but he understands the expectations and the crushing pressure that accompanies them.

Carefully, Nakamura removes his glasses and places them on the bar table that separates the staff and the patrons.

“My father never once told me I had to replace him when he could no longer work,” a pause before a small smile graces the man’s features. He doesn’t look a day past fifty, but Osamu’s certain he is. “And yet I ended up here. I consider myself lucky because if this lifestyle had been imposed on me, I probably would’ve hated it.”

Osamu merely listens, perfectly postured back relaxing a bit at the man’s words. There’s nothing particularly calculating or gauging about Nakamura’s words, but Osamu can tell he’s trying to purposefully break down his walls in a manner other professionals have never bothered with Osamu. The muscles on his back relax just a bit more.

Nakamura walks into the kitchen, steers toward one of the ice boxes they had just brought in and pulls out an entire seabass fish. It’s one of the healthiest, freshest fishes Osamu’s ever seen just by looking at scales and he’s genuinely amazed at how someone from Tokyo could find a great catch like this without living next to the ocean.

“When I think of Kappo, I think of the relationship humanity’s had with food for the entirety of existence. I think about all the techniques, all the ingredients, all the knowledge that’s been passed down from one person to another until this point in time.” Without any finesse, Nakamura throws the seabass on the table and turns around in search of something at the other end of the kitchen. His voice doesn’t lose intensity as he continues to speak, however.

“Kappo is about the relationship of it all. As people who prepare food, I interpret us as observers.” Nakamura is carrying two knives in one hand now, a whetstone in the other as he carefully sets them down on the counter. There’s a silence that hangs between them, but it’s not uncomfortable and it helps Osamu focus as the owner of the business soaks the whetstone in water until no more air bubbles rise to the surface. The man then carefully sets cotton towel on the counter before place the whetstone there. With practiced ease, he sharpens the first knife, then begins sharpening the second.

“The role of the observer is knowing how to listen to nature,” Nakamura breaks the silence, blade brushing against the whetstone with a crisp sound. “If you really wanna deconstruct that rationale and analyze our style, Kappo implies silence.”

We practice silence so that we observe all the techniques that become available to us, whether they be from nature or from other humans or anything else in our environment. Kappo is a synthesis of these techniques and your own curiosity. It is everything and anything you want.” Once he’s satisfied with the sharpness of the knives, Nakamura sets them down next to the fish he’d just brought out. After, his attention focuses on the whetstone and wrapping it in the cotton towel before removing it from the counter.

“Miya Osamu,” the words bring him out of his reverie, “I want you to make cuts for sushi and sashimi using the same fish.” Osamu waits patiently for further instructions, but they never come, so he simply steps forward and lets the muscle memory kick in.

Luckily, Nakamura seems to know exactly what to expect for someone who prepares food for his kitchen because he’s provided all the tools truly necessary; the other important factor to making delicious food being Osamu’s knowledge.

Having washed his hands and grabbed what he identifies to be a broad blade knife, Osamu begins by removing the head from the rest of the body. Next, he makes a cut alongside the belly of the fish that runs all the way to the tail. Osamu notes the location of the fish’s spine cutting until the top piece of the fish reaches the tail. The next cut runs just as long but is made so that it cuts the fish into three different parts stacked on top of each other. Every time he does this, no matter the fish, the noise of the knife hitting bone resembles a song to his ears. He’s successfully divided the fish and now he opens it up, removing the middle piece—a perfectly cut spine—which then prompts him to remove the parts connected to the fins. He sets these parts aside, knowing that many restaurants (including himself) hate to waste pieces of meat with such high fat content.

His fingers run alongside the remaining two pieces toward the space missing the fish’s head and he feels a few bones he’d missed when removing the spine; it happens a lot, nearly impossible to remove them all at the same time because of simple anatomy. Yet, fish preparers had developed techniques that minimized the work that came after. Using his nails and small knife incisions, he removes ten bones from each side before taking one last glance at his work.

The last step of filleting the fish calls for him to cut the remaining fish meat into equal pieces for Nakamura’s use (or anyone who wishes to use this fish). The seabass makes six parts and again, Osamu is taken in the by the beauty and perfect marbleization of the meat.

He takes one piece and begins slicing thin vertical lines for sushi meat preparation, arranging them into neat stacks. Osamu’s not sure how much is necessary to put him to the test, but he opts to finish when half the piece of meat is gone. Grabbing another piece of meat and the unused yanagi blade, he begins cutting the sashimi meat differently; the pieces are thicker for the first five, then he changes the size to slightly thinner but still thicker than sushi slices. When the slices become thin enough, he starts cutting a few of those pieces in half, making individual stacks; the rest of the thin strips he folds in half, making a separate pile for each those.

He wipes the counter clean of excess liquids, silently presenting the cuts to Nakamura.

Nakamura doesn’t say anything about what he’s just witnessed, instead making intense eye contact with Osamu. The twin swallows whatever’s in his throat, staring right back.

“I used to work at Kaiseki restaurants before I opened this restaurant. That’s actually how I met Minori,” Nakamura says, finally, referring to Yamada by first name. “They always felt too rigid with a clear hierarchy I didn’t quite like. I wanted something that could allow me to venture off into a variety of dishes with different takes every time I would make them. Most of my curiosity came from incorporating red meat, so Kappo seemed the only way to do it all.”

There’s a new expression on Nakamura’s face now, one that’s less guarded with less wrinkles. “I like to change our omakase menu every month, so you have to be willing to learn and make mistakes.”

“There’s nothing I’d like more than to learn from you. Please take care of me,” Osamu says after minutes of merely paying attention and demonstrating his skills. He makes sure to put extra care in the formal bow he presents Nakamura, attempting to convey his deep respect for the man’s words. He’s eager to see the man’s talent in action.

“You can go home, then. We don’t typically start until 16:00. I simply wanted to see what you were all about. Yamada never steers me wrong, though,” he says, grin blooming on his face.

Osamu feels cheated. “Ah, I’ll return at that hour then. But if you can permit me one question…”

Nakamura raises a single eyebrow in silent acknowledgement, arms crossed over his chest.

“How do you get fish this good in Tokyo?”

“Akaashi?”

“Miya?”

The sun is shining, but the shoreline is so close that the ocean breeze makes it much cooler than it ought to be. The sky is in its full blue splendor, the Minatomirai skyline running parallel to the scarce white clouds. The trees around them are thinning, leaves turning all shades between orange and brown.

“Fancy seein’ ya here!” Osamu exclaims, but there’s exhaustion weighing heavily on his shoulders. He wonders if Akaashi can see it in his body language, the fact that he’s been awake since four in the morning shadowing a Michelin star tempura restaurant in the Kannai area. Their hours had been different from Nakamura’s restaurant, but the owner had been adamant on Osamu learning from someone who specialized in tempura. _By the time you leave, I want you to be able to run your own Kappo restaurant_ , Nakamura joked last night over the phone. The weight and possible responsibility of being able to do that, however, only hits him now.

Akaashi doesn’t look too good either, he notes, his brain taking a mental note of the eyebags underneath Akaashi’s eyes strategically hidden by the slight shadow of his glasses. Osamu shakes the thought before it lodges itself in his mind, growing larger in area.

“I could say the same,” Akaashi replies. He’s not wearing work clothes seeing that it’s Sunday and most likely didn’t have to go into work, but he’s carrying a tote bag full of what appears to be books. “You’re far from Meguro.”

“Yer far from Ueno. Is the collection of books up there not enough for a literature professional like yerself?” Osamu jokes, earning him a smile that reaches Akaashi’s tired eyes.

“There are a few bookstores that have more contemporary titles here. Also, world literature is more accessible here. It’s one of my new interests,” Akaashi clarifies, crossing the distance between them to stand in front of Osamu. “I’m assuming you’re here for work?” he says and asks at the same time, eyeing the remnants of Osamu’s uniform, the rest shoved into his work duffle bag.

“Yep, ‘twas a long day.”

Akaashi stands there in front of him, looking like he’s not quite sure what to say, Osamu surely mirroring his expression. This is the first time they’ve seen each other since the izakaya night with Black Jackals, and it’s not like Osamu has had the time to text Akaashi in the month that’s transpired.

There also hasn’t been a reason for him to do so, he tells himself.

“—dinner?” Akaashi says, Osamu’s brain registering the last word of his question. Akaashi’s eyelashes look incredibly long underneath the sun’s light, gray eyes accentuated by the blue painted across the sky.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

That seems to inspire Akaashi’s amusement because his eyes are shining with something new Osamu can’t quite name. “I simply asked if you’d already had dinner.”

“Oh. Nah, I was on my way back to Meguro ‘n thought maybe I’d get somethin’ at Yokohama Station.” As if on cue, his stomach growls and that sends Akaashi into a full-blown smile.

“Then it’s settled. I know a place in Queen’s Square. You don’t have any plans for the rest of the evening, right?”

Osamu perceives himself a resilient man, a true Kansai man. Yet, he can’t find himself saying no to Akaashi Keiji and he’s only recently formed some kind of acquaintanceship with the man; Akaashi’s power frightens Osamu a bit.

They arrive at Kannai Station, transfer a few times to get to the Minatomirai Station where they’re able to find the restaurant indoors. The ride up the endless escalators are giving him vertigo, and if he pays attention enough, he can feel the entire building shaking from the arriving and departing trains running below. The restaurant is hidden, two flights of the-longest-escalators-ever later, and Osamu thinks it’s a restaurant only people with attention to detail are able to find. Osamu’s been here for two months, but this is his first-time exploring Kanto properly outside of Tokyo.

“It’s a tonkatsu chain that’s popular across the country, and I don’t know why but this location makes the food just a bit better,” Akaashi comments, excusing himself and walking into the restaurant. Osamu stays outside but can hear the chorus of workers greeting Akaashi followed by the man asking for a table for two. It seems to be available because Akaashi peeks his head out, waving Osamu inside the restaurant.

The restaurant is not as busy, but it _is_ Sunday afternoon and many families have opted to stay home and enjoy their day off, if they’re lucky enough to afford such a luxury.

Akaashi places his bag on an empty chair, sitting next to another so Osamu takes the chair directly opposite of his.

They order the same combination, taking some hot green tea and water to accompany their dishes.

“Sorry about not messagin’ ya sooner,” Osamu breaks the silence that’s been hanging between them since the waiter came to take their orders. “Just had alotta things to do.” Not completely a lie, he must admit, but a part of him had been hesitating to message Akaashi for a reason he can’t quite comprehend either.

Akaashi stops folding his napkin in the elaborate shape he’d been attempting to form, fingers pushing the paper aside. “It’s all right. I don’t think I could’ve replied anyway. I had many deadlines this past month and we are barely getting out of our editorial hell hole.”

“How’s that goin’?”

Akaashi rolls his eyes, pushing up the sleeves of his cardigan as he carefully keeps his arms off the table. “Awful. The author we’ve had refused to send us his manuscripts and we had to get multiple editors on his case. It’s a miracle we didn’t get the legal team involved.”

Osamu’s brain points out the dark circles underneath Akaashi’s eyes again, no exhaustion in his voice, no other indication that Akaashi’s been through hell and back beyond the slight slump in his posture. “I never thought professionals could be a pain in the ass like that. Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s not your fault, no need to apologize.” The waiter comes back with their drinks, setting them down carefully and excusing himself. “How has getting used to Tokyo been?”

“No one told me it’d be this noisy,” Osamu laughs, earning him a small smile from the man opposite of him. “It’s different, but it’s been nothin’ too difficult.” _I have Atsumu_ , he wants to say, but as always, foregoes. “There’s so much food around here, I can’t complain.”

“You never told me what the restaurant you’re working at specializes in.”

“It’s a Kappo restaurant,” Osamu begins explaining after taking a sip of his water, “and truly whatever the head chef feels like making. Ya should come by some time.”

“What an interesting concept,” Akaashi says. “I’m not well versed in cuisine but that sounds incredibly volatile. To my understanding, it’s already difficult being in the food industry because of costs but I cannot imagine having an ever-changing menu. Must be difficult for those preparing, too.”

Akaashi’s observation is astute, Osamu thinks, and it shows just how quick and sharp the past Fukurodani setter is.

“That’s a pretty good way to think of it,” Osamu comments, but stops mid-thought as the waiter brings out their meals. They voice their grattitude for their meal and begin to dig in, Osamu particularly enjoying the shredded cabbage. Their tonkatsu sauce is good, but what really sells Osamu is the perfect texture of their deep-fried pork cutlet.

“I know,” Akaashi says through their silence, seemingly reading Osamu’s mind, mouth full and speck of rice clinging to the corner of this mouth. The sauce highlights the perfect weight of the cutlet, and when he completely dips the piece he’s dangling from his chopsticks, Osamu pretends he doesn’t go overboard.

“Atsumu use’ta do this all the time ‘n I didn’t really understand why. I think I do now.” Osamu grabs a clump of cabbage and shoves it into his mouth, hoping it cleanses a bit of the welcomed tonkatsu overload on his tastebuds.

Once they’re both done with their food, they resume filling in the gaps of the last ten years.

Akaashi tells him of his time in Todai, his time in California learning and eating. Those stories pique Osamu’s interest, and Akaashi vows to bring him along next to so that Osamu’s able to taste the diverse flavors of the state. Osamu tells him about his travels across Japan, a sense of purpose he’s managed to form after years of not knowing what he truly wanted to do. He, too, promises to bring Akaashi to all his favorite restaurants when time permits.

“Is what you’re doing currently what you want to do?” Akaashi asks, and Osamu’s taken aback. Akaashi seems to sense his hesitancy, his own spike of panic appearing on his face. “I’m sorry if that’s too much of a personal question. You don’t have to answer.”

“No, it’s okay,” he says with a shaky breath, taking a sip of water to clear the sudden dryness in his throat. “Yer very blunt, Akaashi.” A humorless laugh, trying to disguise his small slip up.

Akaashi is patient, lets Osamu pick himself up from the blow he’d inflicted, but nevertheless waits for Osamu to take the lead in the conversation. Osamu is thankful.

When he finally speaks, it’s a few minutes later, but with a raw intensity he’d only used on a few people in his life.

“It’s better… than what it use’ta be,” he begins. “Before, I thought volleyball would be endgame. I was young ‘n all, but it didn’t make it any less real.”

Akaashi doesn’t say anything, simply continues to listen and focus on Osamu. Osamu does his best to avoid eye contact.

“I’m doin’ food ‘n it makes me happy.” A realization. “Maybe I don’t wanna be this exhausted workin’ under other people or doing fancy stuff like Kappo, but I love food ‘n yeah…” his voice trails off. “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”

Akaashi smiles, close-lipped, eyes wrinkling shut and somehow the expression outshines the bright lights inside the restaurant.

“I’m really happy for you, Miya.”

Osamu is thankful again that Akaashi doesn’t press on, doesn’t try to pry more information out of him and soon enough, they’re exiting the restaurant, walking down the street and across Kokusai Bridge. It’s dark out now, but the sky is illuminated by the Cosmo Clock Ferris wheel at the end of the bridge.

The long walk along the same street carries them to the Red Brick Warehouse district, Akaashi maneuvering them through paths that take them closer to the water. There’s no silence between them this time, however.

Akaashi doesn’t stop talking about doing school at Fukurodani, about his own qualms with letting go of volleyball, about the disappointment he’d initially felt starting off his career in editing manga. Osamu lets him, commenting from time to time on things he knows he can and aren’t out of line. He also wonders if Akaashi’s own friends who’ve known him for years are used to this much talking.

“Do you want to take a break by the pier?” Akaashi asks, the moonlight allowing for Osamu’s eyes to zero in on his sweaty temple. Osamu chuckles at that, keeps the memory in a small box and locks it away, nodding and letting the man lead the way.

When they finally come to rest on a metal bench by the ported ships ranging from ferries to cruise and cargo ships, Osamu is sweating himself. The walk is more arduous than it seems, and with his current exhaustion, a part of him is dreading the walk back to the nearest station.

As they sit down at opposite ends of the bench, Akaashi’s bag slips from his shoulder too soon and spills a few books onto the floor. Akaashi makes a surprised noise and before he can even begin bending down to pick up the books, Osamu takes it upon himself to do it for him. One of the titles reads _Norwegian Wood_ , the same title Osamu had noticed back at the izakaya.

“Yer still not done with this one?” Osamu asks before he can weigh the implications of his question.

“What was that?”

“Last month, at the izakaya. Ya had this book on ya. Was wonderin’ if yer finished with it already.”

Akaashi seems to be taken aback by the observation, reaching out toward Osamu and taking the books from his grip with a muttered _thanks_. They return to their respective corners on the bench, only the breeze whirling through the empty space between them.

“I’m almost finished with it. The pacing is a bit off, and it took me weeks to read a very long chapter because of work.” Akaashi’s scrunches his nose. “Have you read it, too?”

“I have,” he confirms. “It’sa book I actually picked up by myself… I think I read it one weekend at the beginnin’ of culinary school before school got too much. I wanna know what our resident literary expert Akaashi thinks about it.”

They’re both looking at the dark, endless sky above them. The light pollution of the cities around them don’t allow for the stars to shine as bright, but they’re there and serve as a backdrop to the moving lights of airplanes cruising the skies. In comparison to the cramped trains he’s grown accustomed to on his daily commutes in Tokyo, this sea breeze makes him strangely nostalgic for home, _for_ _Hyogo_.

“Well, I guess we’re just going to have to keep seeing each other like this until I finish it and we can discuss it?” Akaashi asks, too matter-of-factly. Akaashi should be careful, Osamu thinks, because right now it feels like Akaashi is adamant on building a friendship with him. Worst of all, Osamu can only hope that they end up being friends, too.

🍙 🍙 🍙

Messaging Akaashi becomes a regular aspect of his life. They often send each other nonsensical and trivial parts of their day compartmentalized in a few sentences. Sometimes, depending on the situation and how much time they both have to reply, they’ll send each other attachments in the form of links and photos. Osamu admits that he’s taken one too many pictures of his succulent growing up healthy in a much bigger pot before sending Akaashi the perfect shot.

 _This coffee is incredibly good. Would you like to have some together soon?_ Akaashi captions his latest photo to Osamu, and there’s an unfurling feeling at the pit of his stomach mirroring the growth of vines beneath the earth. The feeling consumes him with each new message he receives from Akaashi, and just as slowly as a plant grows, the feeling makes a permanent home there; he brushes the feeling off as nothing more than the anticipation of making a new friend, something he hasn’t done in so long.

Osamu takes ten minutes to even begin drafting a reply, too engrossed in zooming into the photo that is centered around what appears to be an iced latte. Next to it, there sits a plated slice of pound cake and Akaashi’s left arm. He’s wearing a very modern, expensive-looking watch on his wrist that Osamu thinks definitely belongs to someone involved in the Japanese editing world. The more he stares at the photo, the more he focuses on Akaashi’s arm and the realization has him exiting the photo immediately.

 _Sure. I’m free Thursday evening if you are?_ Osamu replies and puts his phone away, ending his break, attention back on servicing the restaurant’s patrons.

Atsumu is watching a volleyball match being aired live from the other side of the world when he gets home, the older twin offering him leftover food from his own takeout order. Osamu politely declines, exhaustion navigating his body into the bathroom where he washes his face and brushes his teeth. Osamu doesn’t even think to look at his phone until he’s slipped into fresh night clothes, chin tucked underneath the comforter.

_That works perfectly. I will have to bring some work to read over, but it’s nothing too extensive. Let me know if you prefer me to abstain from doing work._

Osamu’s eyes are watering from how tired they are but seeing another message just below that one in their chat log has him using up the last of his strength to process what it says.

_Rest well, Miya._

Folding his arms, Osamu pretends to busy himself reading the kana on the menu board. Presumably, the menu items have been presented in such a way to accommodate the tourists that visit the coffee shop in busy Daikanyama. It’s a good distraction from the fact that Osamu has not a single clue what makes good coffee… well, _good_.

“Not a coffee person, are you?” Akaashi asks, elegant eyebrow quirked. He’s still wearing a full suit, but he’s loosened the blue tie around his neck that brings out the color of his eyes. Osamu feels severely underdressed because it’s his day off so he’s just wearing jeans and his go-to black and gray Nike windbreaker.

“Not that difficult to figure out, huh?”

“Coffee isn’t for everyone, but they have different drinks on the menu that aren’t espresso based,” Akaashi explains casually, the barista cheerfully carrying on a conversation with the customer at the register. Osamu can make out the big band jazz, the speakers at every corner carrying the sound across the contemporary-themed shop.

“I recommend their iced matcha if you like matcha, but their chai is also very good.”

“I like matcha, but I’m tempted to see what their chai tastes like now.”

Osamu braves a peek at the shop’s pastry board but ends up with nothing as the barista waves them over to order their drinks.

“An iced latte and a slice of earl grey pound cake for myself, please,” Akaashi orders, ever-so politely and charming. It makes Osamu a bit envious that Akaashi’s this way and doesn’t even notice.

He adjusts the baseball hat on his head. “I’ll have a hot chai.”

Osamu pays, swatting Akaashi’s credit card away from the barista who merely giggles at their antics and sets off to start on their drinks. Akaashi seems a bit upset at having not paid for their order but settles on rolling his eyes at Osamu before sauntering over to an empty table. He’s already busy, pushing the chair back, attentive as ever in making as little noise possible; Osamu moves to mirror Akaashi’s action but is stopped by the man’s voice.

“Before anything else,” Akaashi says, materializing a perfectly wrapped box in a pretty navy paper, a silver bow attached to the top. “Happy belated birthday.”

Osamu is a bit stunned, because sure his birthday had been this week, but Akaashi had no way of knowing that? Did he?

“How did ya—?”

“Bokuto’s been very excited about Atsumu’s birthday—yours as well,” Akaashi reassures, “so I went shopping with him. I was waiting for you to tell me, but then it seemed a bit foolish since I also don’t like people knowing about my birthday.” Akaashi hesitates when he notes Osamu still hasn’t taken the gift from his hands. This panic is what gets Osamu moving, reaching across the table to take it from the man’s hands.

“I—don’t know whatta say. Thank ya so much, Keiji.”

Akaashi’s cheeks redden, Osamu blaming it on store’s heater.

“Mind if I open it?” Osamu asks, Akaashi nodding immediately. The wrapping is so beautiful, Osamu taking just a few seconds longer to feel the paper against his fingertips. Carefully, he finds the inconspicuous places Akaashi’s placed the tape. It’s fairly easy to get the wrapper off without much of a tear like that, the paper revealing a plain brown box.

“Don’t shake it too much,” Akaashi warns. Osamu hums, removing the lid and finding a jade succulent along with a plastic pouch filled with what appear to be macadamia cookies. On the plastic, there’s drawings of twin foxes, identical in style save for the captions with the Kanji for Osamu and Atsumu. The Kanji itself is a mess.

“I made the cookies,” Akaashi interrupts his thoughts, “Bokuto insisted on drawing your high school mascot on the bag to represent you both.”

The plastic wrinkles underneath his fingers, thumb tracing over the gray bow that ties the bag closed.

“I’m sorry it’s nothing special—”

“It’s perfect.”

There’s a giant grin on his face, can feel his cheeks beginning to hurt. His heart feels like it’s tripled in size, beating rampantly. Even his legs feel like jello, suddenly wishing he were sitting down right about now.

“Thanks again. How was work?” he asks instead of putting more attention on himself, bending down to finally sit directly in front of Akaashi.

The man before him is already shoving a fork full of early grey pound cake into his mouth. The question seems to catch him off guard, eyes widening. Osamu smiles, watching Akaashi chew faster than normal so that he can reply to Osamu.

When he’s done, Akaashi apologizes and finally says, “Busy, as usual. Tomorrow’s Friday and there are some things we need to go over at a meeting for a deadline two weeks from now.” Akaashi seems to deflate at his own words, the impending workload he’ll be faced with seemingly hitting him when his expression shifts. “I have to present the meeting.”

Osamu thoughtfully hums. “Ya mentioned ya did manga editing before ya moved into literature?”

Akaashi opens his mouth to reply but is cut off by the barista places their drinks on the table. They thank them as they retreat behind the counter.

“Yes. If my stories of Japanese literature seem horrible, the deadlines for manga are stuff of nightmares. Ah, that reminds me—” Keiji stops midsentence to reach for his work bag and pulls out a paperback book with a plain white cover.

“Is this the book ya wanted me to read?” Osamu asks, eyebrow quirked but hand already reaching for the book still in Akaashi’s hand. Their fingers brush at the exchange and Osamu pretends—always pretends—he doesn’t feel the spark of electricity that courses through his fingers and disappears when the sensation reaches his palm.

“Yes. It’s one of my contemporary favorites and I hope you enjoy it.” Keiji’s other hand is hiding his mouth, but there’s a glimmer in his gray-almost-blue eyes that makes Osamu feel like he’s being gauged.

“Thanks fer thinkin’ of lil ol’ me, I’ll read it diligently.”

“It’s a bit dark, but I think you’ll enjoy it.” Akaashi’s smiling now, lips sealed but tilted upward and his eyes closed. The vines grow longer at the pit of his stomach.

“Based on _Norwegian Wood_ , I think you really like to read about this country’s post-war cynicism,” Osamu chuckles, but thinks everything that goes through Akaashi’s peculiar mind is refreshing.

“Don’t ruin the book, I still haven’t finished,” says Akaashi, straightening his face into a deadpan and lifting his index finger in a hushing gesture. “But promise you won’t tell my employers that I do. They’re all annoying nationalists.”

Osamu breaks out into laughter at that, a sound resembling a gunshot in the quiet coffee shop, pointedly opting to take a sip of his chai before he can make a bigger fool of himself. His taste buds can make out the typical spices in chai, but there’s an immediate sharp spike of spice from peppercorn and the licorice hint from fennel seed; it’s delicious.

“Yer incredibly weird, Keiji.”

“I like that.”

“Bein’ weird?”

“No. I meant I liked that you referred to me by my first name just now and earlier, too.”

“An easy man to please, eh? When’re _ya_ gonna start callin’ me by my first name?” Osamu takes another sip, burning his tongue lightly this time around.

“Careful,” warns Akaashi.

Predictably enough, spending time catching up on the state of affairs alongside Akaashi is productive and pleasant. Akaashi’s only remotely distracting in the sense that Osamu enjoys stealing glances at him, forehead wrinkled as his eyes focus on the screen Osamu can’t see. When the wrinkling stops and Keiji’s typing resumes, Osamu looks away to avoid suspicion.

He’s currently booking his accommodation to a food conference in Sendai but becomes intrigued by the book sitting at the edge of his side of the table. _Sea and Poison_ reads the title and Osamu skims through the worn-out pages folded at some places. There’re undecipherable notes written at the margins and even if he pressed down with enough force, the ink has settled into the paper and cannot be smudged.

Osamu makes it a few chapters in before Akaashi is stretching, arms above his head. Akaashi has enough control to raise his hand to his mouth before yawning into it, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes in a lazy manner immediately after.

“As much as I’m enjoyin’ this productive evenin’, I think that’s yer cue to pack it up.”

Akaashi seems to mull the words over before agreeing. They gather their things, thanking the new barista that has presumably relieved the other from their duties, and begin walking toward the train station where they’ll part ways.

“I really enjoy our meet-ups,” Akaashi admits as the walking figure appears at the crosswalk, signaling to them they can make their way across the road, “even though we’ve only seen each other a handful of times.”

They’re walking side by side, but the space between them feels like kilometers in distance; Osamu is consumed by the need to close it. “I must admit, I didn’t think we would keep in contact beyond our occasional reunions with our mutual friends.”

Akaashi’s words ring true. The first month there had been no messages exchanged, but their Sunday afternoon in Yokohama had shifted the unspoken terms between them. For that, Osamu was grateful.

“Would ya call us bumpin’ into each other in Yokohama fate, then?” Osamu asks, and it’s almost teasing.

“Of the sort, yes. I could’ve ignored you,” Akaashi says, lips settle in a straight line and anyone can tell he’s given a serious answer to a joking question. _Fuck_ , Osamu thinks, he’s _fucked_. “But I asked if you wanted to eat together and we spent hours walking around the seaside. If I truly didn’t want to stay in contact, I would have let you know long ago.”

Osamu’s at loss of words, but still manages to lift his chai in the air. “To a no-bullshit friendship, then.” Akaashi meets him halfway with his iced latte.

Too soon they’re at the train station, the entire structure shaking as a train pulls into the station. They’re stepping up the stairs to the platform, the salarymen beside them picking up their pace to make it onto the train before its departure. Neither Osamu nor Akaashi follow their pace, missing two trains before they’re finally able to end their conversation.

“I think we should break up.”

Osamu blinks, once, twice; maybe he blinks more than that. His chewing slows, reaching for the napkin next to his plate of souffle pancakes. Osamu’s never been one for sweet things, but he doesn’t mind eating them from time to time. The blueberry jam and cream cheese pair incredibly well with the texture of these pancakes so he savors them a bit more than normal.

When he’s finished chewing, he looks up at Ichika. They started dating when a few acquaintances set them up, both culinary students in the city. She looks very pretty with her pink lip gloss, she always does, but her expression seems exasperated and on the verge of _something_. They’ve been together for half a year, and Osamu thinks he can at least read her expressions. If he can, however, why hadn’t he seen this coming?

At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter. “Okay,” he agrees, because what more is there to say? If she’d reached this conclusion by herself, then what could he possibly say to get her to change her mind?

 _You don’t even want to change her mind_ , his thoughts resentfully supply.

“’Okay’? You’re not even gonna ask why?” She’s angry now, pretty lips twitching to the side in that habit of hers whenever she suddenly becomes enraged. “You can at least pretend to care.” She freezes mid-sentence, her pancakes untouched. The table clatters as she throws her bag on the table, a few patrons around them turning their heads to see what the commotion is about. “Shit, you’ve never even cared.”

Osamu flinches at the accusation, partially because Ichika never curses so she catches him off guard but mostly because she’s right. The silence between them speaks for itself, an American pop song softly playing in the background from the café speakers.

“I can’t believe you. Don’t call me,” she says, chokes up on the word ‘call’, before the legs of her chair scrape harshly against the tiled floor. Osamu doesn’t catch a glimpse of her face again, her back turned to him as she exits the establishment.

Sighing, he pulls out his wallet and places the yen necessary to pay for their meals before gathering his winter coat. Osamu doesn’t feel any different as he leaves, but there’s snow falling outside now.

The seed of what could-be dies in the earth before it has the opportunity to nurture anything anew. Osamu thinks the seed never really stood a chance in the cold winter soil, anyway.

🍙 🍙 🍙

Work picks up at the same time the leaves on the trees no longer cling onto branches, the November clouds painting gloomy skies weeks at a time.

“Stop starin’ holes ’inta yer plant,” Atsumu clicks his tongue. He looks a bit off, shoulders squared and nails occasionally digging into his palm, a telltale sign he’s a bit stressed. “It’s not gonna die ’cos the sun hasn’t peeked through the clouds today.” Osamu feels like a fool for even pouting, but he’s invested too much time and effort into nurturing his plant’s growth. The day hasn’t gone well for him, and he still has to head to work later than usual because of a major reservation for a company event.

“Sheesh, yer such an overbearin’ plant parent.”

“Shut yer trap.”

Since his erratic work schedule began, he’s been spending much less time at their apartment, only getting to see his brother a few minutes a day sometimes. Osamu normally doesn’t mind the hours, but the thought of having to maintain a social life weighs heavy on his shoulders. He figures it’s more or less the same situation with Atsumu.

“What’ve ya been eatin’ when I’m not home?” Osamu asks, going back to dicing the onions for the dinner he’s preparing.

“If I’m not out with friends, I usually just eat whatever ya leave in the fridge.”

“Oh, good. It’s nice to see that yer usin’ yer brain to check the only place in the house ya can leave prepared food in.” Atsumu’s immediate reaction is to crumple a napkin near him and toss it at Osamu’s direction. The piece of paper follows an erratic path before falling short from Osamu. The younger twin smirks.

“Ya’ve been neglectin’ me!” Atsumu pouts like the forever-twelve-year-old he is, then goes back to digging his cheek into his palm. “The time ya do have free, yer hangin’ out with Akaashi!”

The statement feels like a pail of cold water to the face and has Osamu dropping his knife with a flinch.

Atsumu picks up on his surprise immediately, back straightening and eyes deciding on a suspicious squint.

“Yer close to yer thirties more than anythin’ else. I’m not yer caretaker ’n a grown ass man like yerself should be able to cook for ’imself.” Osamu picks up the knife, hand steady, and resumes cutting the onion.

“’kay but ya can’t even bring me leftover food from yer work or somethin’?”

“It’s against protocol. ’Sides, I’d rather give food to people who actually need it unlike yer spoiled self.” Osamu punctuates his words by pointing his knife at his twin, but even the way he holds the utensil emits no malice.

Silence falls between them for a few minutes, Atsumu watching as his brother makes quick work of grilling the sauteed beef Osamu had promised Atsumu last week for their day off.

“So, yer not goin’ to tell me about yer meetups with Keiji?” Atsumu finally asks, but Osamu’s prepared for it this time.

“Whadda ya want me to tell ya?” Osamu’s mouth feels dry, suddenly. “He’s good company ’n makes me feel productive when I know if I came home, ya’d hound me into playin’ _Winning Eleven_ until our fingers fall off.”

Osamu shouldn’t feel like he’s pulling out his own teeth when thinking about evaluating the type of relationship he has with Akaashi, especially when he thinks they’re already friends.

“Yer not friends?” Atsumu asks, and somehow his face seems to get infinitesimally closer.

“I guess we are? I don’t really go around askin’ that question to all the people I know. Kinda weird isn’t it?” A pause. “Are _we_ twins?” Osmau flinches at how venomous and detached his words sound. Atsumu doesn’t fail to pick up on the biting tone.

“Shut yer fuckin’ trap!” Atsumu yells, bolting out of his seat. His face gives too much away, Osamu realizing in a skittering heartbeat that Atsumu’s actually _mad_ at him. “I can’t even talk ta ya about serious shit because ya go makin’ jokes out of all of it. Why don’tcha ever wanna tell me anythin’?” If this were ten years ago, in high school, they would already be minutes into a fist fight; this isn’t a decade ago, however.

Osamu, with a sinking dread, watches Atsumu battle his instinct to lunge forward the remaining distance between them. In a second of rationality, Osamu suspects, Atsumu clenches his fists until they’re whitening with lack of circulation and stalks off, slamming his bedroom door shut behind him.

The sizzling sound coming from the garlic on the skillet behind him pulls him out of his shock, fingers reaching to kill the flame. He should be used to this kind of thing, hell, he used to be the one to instigate their fights all the time. There’s a stinging sensation building at the corner of his eyes and he blames it on the onion pieces in front of him.

He finishes the sauteed beef when he recalls never setting the rice to cook. Making sure to wash his rice four times, he measures the rice-to-water ratio he’d learned from his grandma before letting the rice cooker work its magic. As soon as that begins to cook, Osamu grabs the keys he’d thrown on the counter and pulls on a Nike hoodie sprawled on top of the couch’s backrest. It smells like Atsumu, his brain supplies when his head gets stuck and he’s forced to take a deep, grounding breath. With deep care, he closes the apartment door behind him.

Outside the apartment complex, the sun has long set, the bright lights of the city illuminating the streets in a warm fall glow. His feet carry him on their own accord, stopping a few blocks away at a local grocery store. Osamu saunters over to fresh fish section, eyes catching on a beautifully marbled piece of blue fin tuna. He signals it to one of the workers behind the counter, the man packaging the fish with brown paper. Osamu takes longer than he normally would on the walk home, thoughts racing in a million directions.

There’s still no sign of Atsumu when he returns to an eerily quiet apartment. Somehow, Osamu senses he’s still home and so he makes his way toward the kitchen counter to check on the rice he’d left. The light for the “keep rice warm” function is on and when Osamu opens the lid to check on the texture, he moves his head just in time to escape the cloud of the steam that escapes the cooker. Satisfied, he closes the lid once more to let more steam accumulate and continue keeping the rice at the perfect temperature.

His attention returns to the otoro neatly wrapped in parchment paper. Calloused fingers catch on the edges of the paper a few times, but he manages to successfully unwrap the beautiful piece of otoro. He reaches for a few paper towels from the pantry, patting away the excess liquid on the otoro.

Atsumu’s door opens as Osamu is straightening his knife and he pretends to not notice. Atsumu wordlessly moves across the apartment, bare socked feet padding too loudly. There’s a small clanking of sorts followed by the sound of chopsticks scrapping skillet metal. Another lid opens as Osamu finishes straightening the knife and angles the otoro for a better chance at equally portioned pieces. It’s probably the million thoughts surging through his brain at the moment, but he finds it incredibly satisfying to see the metal slice through the tuna, time and time again until he’s slicing air; the noises silence his brain altogether.

“Sorry,” Atsumu interrupts the peace, Osamu only catcheing a glimpse of him lowering his chopsticks as he begins to chew loudly to presumably make the newfound silence of the room less deafening.

“I’m sorry, too.”

Osamu goes through the cupboard behind him, reaching for two bowls and placing them on the counter to fill them both with rice. Before he goes back to the kitchen table, he makes sure to grab the rice vinegar that’s at the edge of the counter, closer to the fridge. He mixes a bit of rice vinegar into a single bowl of rice with a spare spoon. Using the same spoon, he attempts to flatten the rice to the best of his abilities, filling all visible holes with the staple food.

He stacks the otoro above the rice in a neat spiral, adding just the right amount of ginger and wasabi he knows his older twin loves.

At the table, Atsumu’s eyes glimmer when he catches a glimpse of the otoro bowl Osamu has made just for him.

“Here,” Osamu mutters, pushing the bowl toward the blonde. Osamu pretends he doesn’t see Atsumu swallow something thick as he bites his lower lip.

“No. I mean—yeah sorry for the outburst but I’m also sorry that I’m such’a shitty brother.”

Osamu isn’t quite sure as to what Atsumu’s referring to. “Ya have an overall shitty personality. It’s fine,” he says it and means it.

“Do ya remember one time when we were small, ya told me to stop bein’ mean ’cos everyone hated me?”

“Yeah, but ya were still mean anyway.”

Atsumu pouts, a telltale he’s no longer angry. “Yeah. It still hurt, though. Everyone bein’ afraid of me ‘n all.”

Osamu hums, beginning to add the leftover sauteed beef onto his plate. Atsumu’s had enough of an idea to pour out some soy sauce on a saucer plate between them so Osamu dips the meat into it before taking a bite.

“Ya said to me, ‘I’m gonna lead a life of kindness!’ as if I couldn’t do that.”

“I never implied ya couldn’t, I simply said ya didn’t.” Osamu sighs. “We were like thirteen. Have ya really carried that with ya for so long?” He figures his twin has; for whatever parts of him were rash and proud, Atsumu was equally confused and emotionally receptive to feelings around him.

“I’ve always taken yer words to heart more than those of others,” Atsumu continues, and he looks sad even when reaching for one of the otoro pieces. Osamu hates seeing him like this, hates feeling like he can’t reply because he at least owes Atsumu the space to tell him how he feels without interruption.

“Ya’ve been my best friend since birth,” Atsumu finally speaks again after what seems like forever. “When I had nobody, I had ya.” Osamu knows this but right now, Atsumu’s words have materialized into hands strangling his heart.

“I’m sorry for makin’ ya think I hated that ya didn’t wanna do volleyball anymore.” Atsumu looks so old then, the lights of the kitchen making his face glossy from this angle. “I was angry ‘cos I was hit with the reality that we were both gonna do different things ‘n would no longer be together all the time.”

Osamu doesn’t blame him, has never truly blamed him for his reaction despite how long Atsumu’s words have haunted him.

“I wanted do volleyball with ya ‘cos it was fun, ‘n it was somethin’ we could do together,” Osamu admits years later, not late enough, however.

Atsumu stops fidgeting and calmly rests his chopsticks across his sauteed beef bowl, the otoro bowl half empty already.

“We’re idiots.”

“Yup, we kinda are.”

When they’re done eating, they do end up playing _Winning Eleven_. Their game scores end up 4-5, with Osamu narrowly winning the evening by a single match. “That’s considerin’ ya played with _Real_ in-forms.”

“ _Liverpool_ won this year what’re ya talkin’ about! They’re the highest rated team right now!” Atsumu’s voice booms. “The one with the buffs here was ya, that’s why ya won, ya cheat!” Atsumu’s on his feet, waving the console’s controller everywhere in the air.

Osamu smiles, victory soothing every muscle in his body as he slowly slides down the couch and ends up sprawled out completely. Atsumu frowns at being ignored and then opts to sit down on Osamu’s stomach, knocking the air out of the younger twin’s lungs.

“Get off me ya smelly dick!”

“My dick doesn’t smell,” Atsumu has the gall to say and crosses his right leg over his left.

“Yer disgustin’.”

“Yer a piece of shit.”

“Takes one 'ta know one.”

It’s hard to breathe with Atsumu sitting on top of him. A thought he’d buried in his mind suddenly climbs its way from six feet under.

“I wanna open a restaurant someday.”

Atsumu bends down and takes a seat on the soft carpet they’d thought matched the same beige from the entryway. Osamu doesn’t dare take a look at him, finding the ceiling way too interesting, throwing an arm over his forehead instead.

“What kind?” Atsumu asks in lieu of a _how?_ , _why?_ , or _with what money?_.

“Somethin’ that I like to make. Somethin’ I wouldn’t get tired of makin’.”

He can hear Atsumu shuffle a bit, maybe stretching himself out more comfortably across the floor. “Maybe more homey food? I know ya’ve been doin’ a lot of that fancy mumbo jumbo food for others… maybe ya might not want that?”

Atsumu is actually being helpful and for once despite constantly thinking about it, Osamu is completely certain that he doesn’t want to work for other people the rest of his life. He’s thankful for their experience, thankful for the opportunities they’ve helped him cultivate but he wants to create something of his own in the same way they have.

“I don’t think the problem is the type of food,” Osamu admits aloud, his voice booming to his own ears. “I think I just want to create somethin’ by myself ’n share it with others. Maybe even help my colleagues discover what they wanna do.” His voice is a bit hoarse, a bit too raw but it suits the emotion he wishes to convey.

He attempts to recall all the memories where he’s felt that emotion, the one he can’t quite name, the one where he feels warm and content when doing something. He thinks of high school, when Atsumu would silently make him match the opposing team’s tactics and adapt to the best of his abilities; he thinks of practice in the late evening, the other Inarizaki players laying across the floor, muscles taut with exhaustion and drenched in sweat from hours of practice; he thinks of making onigiri with Atsumu and their grandmother, his own laugh ringing in his ears as he made fun Atsumu’s ball-shaped onigiri.

“That’s it,” he doesn’t notice himself saying. He jolts upright, head snapping down to meet Atsumu’s gaze.

Atsumu looks like a puppy, looking up brightly at him and meeting his. “I think ya know what ya want.”

Osamu drops a glass cup at home, the item shattering into numerous pieces when it makes contact with the wooden floor. He doesn’t think too much about it even when he’s cleaning up. It’s only much later, when he’s sitting down watching the weather news, that his phone rings and his stomach enters a state of perpetual uneasiness.

“Samu—”

“Tsumu?” Osamu panics at the choked sob at the other end of the call. “What’s wrong?”

Letting his twin cry for a bit even though his anxiety is shooting through the roof, Osamu stays silent.

“I’ll be there soon—”

“What? No! Yer nuts!”

Osamu hangs up, hoping that if Atsumu were in a real emergency, he’d reach out again. Atsumu doesn’t but continues (through text) to emphasize how insane Osamu is for flying last minute from Hiroshima to Tokyo. Osamu doesn’t care, the inability to be physically next to his twin more terrifying than acting on sheer impulse. He’s responsible though, calls out of work for the weekend and the owners understand.

Atsumu doesn’t have the guts to tell him, and it’s Kita who texts him the address of the rehabilitation center Atsumu’s in. Osamu’s stomach drops again when he reaches the address of the building, the Kanji of the building letting him know why Atsumu’s here.

The reception desk clears him with the proper identification, but his skin is itching to be in the recovery room with Atsumu already. There’s a line for the elevator and Atsumu’s room is only on the third floor so he takes the stairs, two at a time, heart about to beat out of his chest.

Bokuto Kotaro perks up when he hears the door slide open, turning his head. Hinata Shoyo and Sakusa Kiyoomi are in the room too and exchange looks when Atsumu sits upright in bed. His right leg is held up by a contraption hanging from the ceiling, looking extremely ucomfortable.

“I think we should let you both talk,” Sakusa offers. Bokuto and Hinata both look reluctant to leave Atsumu alone, but they do so anyway when Sakusa ushers them out.

“Samu,” Atsumu chokes, the big tears starting to cascade down his cheeks. His eyes already look puffy, most likely from crying earlier. Osamu closes the distance between them, sitting in the spot Bokuto had been occupying moments prior.

“Heya, yer good, I’m ‘ere.” Osamu leans over, wrapping his arms around Atsumu. The older twin simply hides his face in the crook of Osamu’s neck, the wet tears sticking there. It feels like hours before Atsumu’s hiccups subside and Osamu’s neck doesn’t feel it’s submerged in the ocean.

“I tore my ACL,” Atsumu finally says, voice small against Osamu’s shirt now. “I had to get surgery. They—they said I can’t play volleyball anymore.” The words almost send Atsumu spiraling again. Osamu lets him cling harder, his own arms wrapping his twin a bit tighter.

Osamu hushes him, moving his right hand to brush his fingers through bleached hair.

“I can’t play volleyball—what am I gonna do, Samu?” Atsumu is close to hysterics, but Osamu is also determined to bring him back.

“Yer gonna do everythin’ ya’ve wanted anyway,” he finds his voice saying. “Yer gonna continue lovin’ volleyball as much as ya do, 'n yer gonna get better.” His voice is now shaking. All the times he’s wanted to be the strong twin feel wrong at this moment; all the times he’s wished to make Atsumu feel insignificant now seem horrifying when he’s faced with the Atsumu’s current state. He would do anything and everything in his power to make sure Atsumu never feels this powerless again. “Yer gonna prove them wrong, like you always do, ‘n yer gonna play volleyball again.” _Maybe not professionally, but I believe in you Atsumu_ , he doesn’t say; he doesn’t really need to.

Atsumu cries himself to sleep, but at least it’s in Osamu’s arms. He stays there until Atsumu’s deep into slumber and the staff kick him out.

🍙 🍙 🍙

Nakamura tells him the day before he leaves Tokyo for a conference in Miyajima where Nakamura’s required to help with plans for the upcoming oyster festival; Miyajima is his hometown and he’s therefore involved in everything and anything involving food. “I’m going home so it’s basically a vacation,” he tells Osamu right when the twin’s hand slips and threatens to cut off his own finger with the sharp knife he’s holding.

“I’ll need you to be going home, too.”

Osamu blinks. “Pardon?”

“Miya,” Nakamura begins, interrupted by a member of his managerial staff handing him a few documents to sign. “You work six days a week and haven’t taken a single day off since you started here. I appreciate your hard work, but I also need you in one piece. Go home and don’t come back for a week.”

That’s how Osamu finds himself sitting at home, laptop in front of him for research on his restaurant ideas but staring blankly at the wall with all kinds of flavored onigiri sitting on the table.

His phone pings with a new LINE notification, Osmau wasting no time in unlocking it and checking the message.

 _Are you possibly free tomorrow?_ Akaashi messages him at this bizarre hour of the day, and Osamu comes to the conclusion that it’s probably Akaashi’s lunchtime.

 _Depends_ , he sends in a single lined message. _Does this activity include seeing you and murdering Tsumu?_ Osamu types in the next line before hitting enter.

Akaashi replies with a moving emoji that is a caricature of a seal laughing. Osamu rubs at his eyes to make sure he’s not hallucinating.

_Can I call you?_

Osamu beats him to it, pressing the voice call icon before putting his phone against this ear. The phone only rings once, the conversations of people coming through the earpiece.

“Miya?” He sounds muffled, Osamu recognizing the sound of someone who’s been caught in the middle of eating.

“Akaashi. Sorry if I caught ya eatin’. What’s up?”

A long second goes by, presumably so that Akaashi finishes gulping down whatever he has in his mouth. The picture of Akaashi eating quickly makes him smile a bit to himself, but otherwise he continues to stay quiet. Osamu’s free hand shoots up to wipe the expression of his face.

“I apologize for answering with food in my mouth,” he begins. “I just got off from a meeting and I’m on a lunch break. One of the other editors actually spoke to me on our way out and told me about the event the National Art Center is having tomorrow night.”

“The National Art Center?”

“Yes, it’s in Roppongi, so it’s in between both our locations. The event is twenty-four hours long and they keep the museum open with free admission. I’ve been wanting to see a few exhibits that are currently on display, but as usual, work.” Akaashi stops himself, and there’s muffled sounds before he begins again.

“I don’t know what your work schedule looks like on the weekends, but would you be willing to go tomorrow evening with me?”

Osamu presses the palm of his hand against his mouth, covering the smile that threatens to bloom on his face despite no one being in his immediate vicinity to judge him for it. He takes a second to recollect his thoughts, hearing the slight fidget of Akaashi gripping his phone just a bit tighter. “Lucky fer ya, I’ve actually been forced to take a vacation this week so yeah, I’m free.”

Wondering if Akaashi knows Osamu can hear the audible sigh Akaashi lets out when Osamu agrees, the twin reaches for his laptop and begins typing the name of the museum on another web browser tab.

“Oh, that works out perfectly. Does 20:00 work?”

“Perfect. I’ll see ya tomorrow, Akaashi.”

“Have a good day, Miya. See you tomorrow.”

“There’s… a lot more people than I thought there’d be.”

A few elementary school kids are running down the path that leads to the main building’s entrance. Akaashi and Osamu have walked for a few minutes already, yet they only now begin to make out the museum’s form. He’s not used to museums this large, not used to ones with botanical gardens the size of an entire Tokyo block, and especially not used to museums with international renown. Hyogo museums were nothing like this.

Akaashi seems to know his way around the path or at least exudes the confidence of someone who does. Tonight, he’s wearing a deep green cardigan on top of what Osamu recognizes to be his usual work clothes. They seem more casual, however, and it’s refreshing to see Akaashi more comfortable in something that actually allows him to move around. Osamu hides the small smile that blooms at the observation, hoping no one sees it, as Akaashi continues to lead the way into the museum.

Inside, the expansive architecture of the museum has Osamu letting out a low whistle. A few people pass them by, casting judging stares at Osamu for his vocal response. Akaashi doesn’t seem to pay them any mind, gaze meeting Osamu’s and giving the twin a smile. “I’m glad you like the interior, too.”

“This place is huge,” Osamu comments, mindful of his volume this time.

Akaashi agrees, and with a tilt of his head, beckons Osamu to continue following him. They ride escalators that rival the length of those in Yokohama, up to the third floor, where there is signage pointing to an exhibit which Osamu assumes is one that Akaashi is interested in viewing.

“Contemporary art?” Osamu quirks an eyebrow at the back of Akaashi’s head moments before the man approaches the ticketing staff, handing the passes before entering the large room.

Inside, the brightness of the hall shocks Osamu. It’s well lit, every corner of the giant room illuminated by bright lights; brighter than those lights, however, are the colors splashed onto various canvases hanging on the maze of walls. The muses on the walls range from yellow inanimate house objects to actual people in complete pink color schemes.

“This is the Kusama Yayoi exhibit,” Akaashi explains, bringing Osamu out of his stupor. The name doesn’t ring any bells, but then again, he feels incredibly uncultured in the arts. His brain has never had enough memory for anything beyond food and volleyball. They walk slower, side by side, Akaashi explaining Kusama’s biography in the briefest of timelines. He’s succinct when doing so, bringing up technical forms of art that Osamu does not understand but nevertheless enjoys Akaashi explaining.

“This trend of ya likin’ post-war art,” Osamu decides to point out again, “whether it be books or paintings. It’s very interestin’. The few people I’ve ever spoken to have only talked about wartime Japan or anything older.”

Akaashi seems thoughtful at that observation, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose when he looks too low at the floor. When he’s done, he returns to clasping both of his hands behind his back and walking. His fingers twist against one another.

“I think we get too caught up trying to guess our future by understanding a past that no longer seems as relevant.” Osamu stares at Akaashi intently, the colors around them blurring together into a rainbow, Akaashi Keiji taking his rightful spot at the center of the room. “There’s so much wrong with the way everyone thinks,” Akaashi’s expression sours, before it morphs into something ardent, a passion Osamu’s seen in people like his brother when he talks about volleyball. “The problems are in our faces, but we like to detach ourselves from them and blame them on a history we’ve written ourselves.”

Akaashi seems to get shy when he realizes how genuinely critical his words come off, and Osamu thinks that he could never tire of all the surprises Akaashi can throw his way. The sprouting plant living at the pit of his stomach grows new branches and if it continues to grow at this pace, Osamu’s afraid it’ll reach organs and will become impossible remove.

“Ya sure ya don’t wanna be a politician?” Osamu asks teasingly, laughing at Akaashi’s disgusted face at the mere suggestion.

“There’s no one I hate more in our society than them,” Akaashi says with a laugh, and it sounds like the fireworks during the summer in Hyogo: loud and bright. Osamu licks his chapped lips.

There’re a lot of renovations going on at the museum, so they finish fairly quickly. Osamu hazards to guess that this is the reason they made their twenty-four-hour event take place during this time of the year. Akaashi suggests they eat dinner at an udon restaurant in the outskirts of Shibuya which Osamu’s growling stomach enthusiastically agrees to. The restaurant is full of patrons, but they still manage to snag a table rather than wait outside in the cold night.

“This kind of restaurant reminds me of Osaka,” Osamu notes, lifting the menu to look closer at the listed items, each with photos of the dishes and English translations. Akaashi’s sitting across from him, staring intently at his menu. Without letting his eyes leave the laminated menu, Akaashi’s eyebrow quirks elegantly. “How so?”

His mind is already pretty set on what dish he wishes to order, so he puts the menu down before turning his head to look at all the decorations behind glass on the shelves built into the walls. The shelves are lined with action figures from Osamu’s parents’ days, surely of collectible value, and he thinks about the amount of time it has taken the owners to get the items in their possession. He even recognizes the Astro Boy figurine his father had once shown interest in.

“When we use’ta have scrimmages in high school, there was a restaurant just like this in Osaka where we’d go eat kushikatsu.” Osamu smiles, remembering his teammates and the fond memories they’d made together sharing a love for volleyball. “It was somewhere in Umeda station, ‘n captain Kita would always want to go to the idol store to get merchandise sayin’ it was his only chance to get exclusive content.”

That seems to finally get Akaashi to look up at him, meeting his eyes with a puzzled expression. “Kita is an idol fan?”

“You don’t even know the half of it.”

“Tell me about it, then.”

Osamu does, over their boiling plates of udon, tells Akaashi about Suna’s livestreams of their antics, the following he’d get after them; tells him about the years he and Atsumu had admired Aran’s volleyball skills and still hold him to the same pedestal they had back then; tells him about Kita who inspired Osamu to live his life day by day, the person he’d consulted before telling Atsumu about his decision to pursue food as a career; tells him about the time Ginjima and Akagi had to carry him off the court in his first year after he couldn’t put pressure on a sprained ankle.

“It often escapes me that we’re the same age,” Akaashi says, muffled by his hand that’s covering his mouth after a particularly loud slurp of his udon. Osamu smiles brighter than he intends to and it seems to shock Akaashi because the lighting in the restaurant gives away the reddening of his cheeks.

“There weren’t a lot of instances where we saw each other,” Osamu offers. “Only at a national level ‘n even then, one of us go eliminated before the other so we never really got the chance to battle it out.”

“You ended up beating Karasuno our third year,” Akaashi says matter-of-factly, taking a sip of his water.

“Didya see that match, Akaashi?”

“We were knocked out the second round,” he replies, but Osamu’s known Akaashi long enough to recognize the slight strain in his voice when uttering the words.

“We were knocked out the second round by Karasuno our second year,” Osamu offers in consolation, Akaashi’s tense shoulders easing a bit at the words. “Ya made it to the final that year, no?”

“With Bokuto’s guidance.”

Osamu hums. “He’s yer best friend, right?” Osamu doesn’t like labels, thinks it makes people come to conclusions sometimes they’re not willing to make. He thinks about Atsumu asking him if him and Akaashi were friends, flinching at the memory. He immediately wants to take his words back, doesn’t want to force Akaashi into the very situation he hates being put in himself, but his mouth simply opens and closes with empty words, eyes glued on a thoughtful Akaashi.

“Yes, I believe he is.”

“How’d ya two meet?” he finds himself asking, but Akaashi tells him anyway. He tells Osamu about the surge of inspiration he’d experienced when Bokuto played volleyball and Akaashi had first witnessed it.

“Bokuto has always motivated me to do my best through his actions,” Akaashi admits an hour later, Osamu feeling like he’s just heard every story Akaashi and Bokuto have to share between themselves. “Ironically, he feels like an older sibling I never had.”

Akaashi’s words seem to ease the grip of invisible hands constricting his lungs; Osamu finds himself being able to take in fresh air for the first time since he started talking about Bokuto with such admiration. Naturally, he panics because a part of him wishes Akaashi spoke about him the same way one day.

Osamu concludes he _likes_ Akaashi, likes the way the seemingly quiet man launches into a million topics around him, likes the way Akaashi is polite to everyone he meets without being a pushover, likes the face Akaashi makes whenever he drinks an americano for the caffeine and not for the taste. Osamu adores the way Akaashi’s nose is left with red marks whenever he removes his glasses, eyes narrowing as he tries to focus on Osamu.

It’s, naturally, a lot to take in.

“Are you okay?” Akaashi’s voice asks and curse him for being perfect in that regard too.

“I’m good,” he lies effortlessly, Akaashi casting him a doubtful glance before looking away. “I think the udon was kinda heavy ‘n now I’m pretty stuffed.”

“Ah,” Akaashi hums, looking at the time on his phone. “It _is_ late, and I do have an early start. Would you like to head out?”

Nodding silently, Osamu moves to leave bills for their meal but Akaashi beats him to it. Osamu’s too distracted to calm the erratic beating of his heart to even fight him.

“I’ve got a crush on Akaashi. Like, a romantic one,” Osamu says over dinner a few nights later, prompting Atsumu to drop his dirty plate onto their kitchen floor. It doesn’t shatter, just makes too much noise which has Osamu wincing. His tongue feels like a piece of lead, too heavy against the roof of his mouth.

“Are ya… are ya—comin’ out to me?” Atsumu stutters, resembling a fish out of water.

Osamu thinks about a good reply, _really_ thinks about it, but ends up shrugging his shoulders in response.

Atsumu grips their kitchen counter, leaning his back against it to support his weight while his face goes through different stages of shock.

“Sorry for forcin’ ya to admit yer feelin’s,” he finally offers, expression unreadable but not disgusted. And _yes_ , his brain supplies _, that’s what’s most important_. Osamu breathes.

“Not that it should matter what I think,” Atsumu panics, rushing through his words. “As long as yer happy. Have ya told him?”

Osamu frowns at that, head snapping in his twin’s direction. “I wouldn’t be here if I had, dipshit.”

“Dude, what the fuck? Whatta ya mean no?”

Osamu’s hesitant, shy even, when he replies after a moment’s silence. “It doesn’t feel like it’s time. Not yet, at least.”

The first time he kisses a man is at a bar Sapporo, a moment of loneliness overtaking rationality. The heat and hunger from the kiss make them both escalate the situation until they’re both writhing in pleasure. They’re normal strangers, exchanging a few words at a local bar before they go back to Osamu’s apartment. He’s only twenty, but it feels like something new, as if he’s getting kissed for the first time again. It’s also not the first time he sleeps with someone, but the experience is new and the other man’s moans reverberate deeper than anyone else he’s been with against his chest when their lips meet.

After a long night of exploring, the man praises Osamu’s ability to learn before leaving the apartment. Osamu’s limbs feel frozen in the Sapporo night, despite the heater blasting hot air into the room. He manages somehow, to make his way into the bathroom and take a shower, scrubbing thoroughly until he can no longer feel the thick layer of sweat cling onto his skin.

Under the shower, he contemplates the feeling again, recognizes it’s not much different from being with any of his girlfriends or one-night stands. There’d been a load off his shoulders knowing he didn’t have to actively think on what came next, letting himself be led instead.

Being sexually attracted to men too doesn’t seem to terrify him. Osamu stops caring about who he sleeps with, opting to chase the heat of the moment instead. He has countless partners after that, and the sex is good, even incredible a handful of times. He doesn’t actively seek it, but when the opportunity presents itself, he doesn’t deny himself. Sex is physical and something he can control. Osamu likes that.

He never sees the man from Sapporo again, but Osamu doesn’t really mind.

🍙 🍙 🍙

“I feel like at this point, you know more about Tokyo than I do.”

Osamu smiles, reaching for the ends of his beige scarf as the wind picks up around them. Akaashi’s hair blows in tandem with the gust that flies between them, looking as ethereal as ever. Akaashi’s sky-blue scarf mirrors the movements.

“Yer gonna hafta get yer Tokyo residency card revoked,” Osamu jokes, flexing his fingers toward him. “Hand it over.”

In the most deadpan way possible, Akaashi reaches into his parka’s pocket to pull out his wallet. “Forgive me. You’re a much better candidate for this title,” Akaashi says monotonously, pulling out his identification card and handing it to Osamu.

A few seconds go by before they burst into laughter, pedestrians walking past them with side-glances directed at them. It’s becoming a common occurrence, but they should be thankful to see two friends enjoying themselves in this miserable city.

Labor Thanksgiving Day was a few weeks ago, but decorations for Christmas have been up since the before then. His favorite part of early winter had always been the illumination attractions across the country, but particularly the one he’d visit with Atsumu and their grandmother in Hyogo. Every year for as long as he could recall, they’d made the train ride out to Kobe Luminaire. The colors gleamed the most beautiful shades against the orange palette of the sky, and it just made it a million times better to experience it alongside the people he most loved.

“Do ya come here every year?” Osamu finds himself asking, walking alongside Akaashi.

“Hmm. Not particularly. I believe the last time I recall being here or at any winter illumination was perhaps during my Fukurodani days?” A warm smile spreads across Akaashi’s face, one Osamu’s come to love and appreciate so much.

“Ya don’t really talk about’em beyond Bokuto, but I can tell ya really care.”

“Yes, very much so,” Akaashi admits before telling Osamu about the volleyball team’s antics.

Akaashi tells him about his teammates, the times they made it to the Spring Tournament and how they always fell short. Despite that, all players felt that they had given it their all in each tournament, only setting more ambitious goals for themselves until high school volleyball would be no more.

“It was a bit difficult when Bokuto left,” Akaashi admits. “I hadn’t realized how much I depended on him as a leader. Yet, even when he went pro, he made sure all of us felt supported. When he left, he did so only physically. He hasn’t stopped spamming our LINE group since the day I’ve met him.”

“Fer what it’s worth, ya did a great job carryin’ the team. I know we didn’t get to play against each other often, but the times we did ‘n that I observed yer other matches, ya always struck me as the backbone of the team.”

Akaashi says nothing and Osamu fears that he’s overstepped an invisible boundary but then Akaashi’s humming. Akaashi’s not one to accept compliments, so when he ignores it, Osamu’s not too hurt. “It was stressful, but nothing can ever compare to the bonds I’ve forged because of it.” All too familiarly, Osamu agrees.

They continue to walk down the Meguro river, the lights hanging from the trees currently a shade of purple. Akaashi’s face looks beautiful under them, Osamu notes when he braves a glance at the man.

“How did’ya come to realize that ya didn’t want to do volleyball past high school?” Osamu asks.

It’s a sincere question, because unlike many of their common acquaintances, Akaashi and Osamu decided that volleyball had run its course in their respective lives. Perhaps they would always be connected to the sport in one way or another, but playing it professionally? At least for Osamu, playing professionally had never been an option.

Akaashi, as Akaashi does with most situations in the incredibly endearing way of his, thoughtfully brings his fingers to hold his chin. Osamu doesn’t mind the silence, thinks that the more there is of it, the more Akaashi’s putting thought into his reply. Two kids brush past Osamu’s leg, giggling between themselves as they run off, their mother a short distance behind them.

When they’re halfway down the block they’re currently walking on, Akaashi stops beside him in a part of the path with less pedestrians. A few leaves crunch underneath his sneakers as he comes closer to Akaashi.

“I’ve found books to be incredibly captivating ever since I can remember. When I became old enough to have to study for school, I found that I retained more information from books than I did from my teachers.” Akaashi stops himself, frowning slightly. “That’s not to say my teachers weren’t good at their jobs, but more so that the words printed out in front of me stayed there and I could always just refer back to them. Literature felt like it was always there and that anything could be turned into literature, really. When I went to university, and even when I landed my first job at my publisher’s manga department, I still felt the same way.”

I think that whenever you discover something like that, something that constantly brings you the same satisfaction it did since the very beginning, maybe, just maybe, that’s something that’s always going to bring you joy. It won’t always be easy and maybe the joy might make it more difficult, but it’s still something you love.”

Osamu had felt that way about food. From the porridge he and Osamu would have after elementary school classes to the onigiri he’d pick up sometimes after volleyball practice because his stomach couldn’t handle being empty for a minute longer. Food seemed only second to Atsumu’s existence in Osamu’s heart. Right now, with the way his heart is hammering and the plant in the pit of his stomach is growing its first branch, Osamu feels like he might have to make an addition to that list.

“I’m assuming that’s the realization you came to as well, or am I wrong, Miya?”

Osamu swallows the formed knot lodged in his throat, saying nothing before pulling his green anorak jacket down when the chilly breeze blows against a strip of his skin a bit more harshly.

“I’m sorry. As always, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Akaashi—because if someone can understand where he’s coming from, it’s definitely Akaashi—or that he doesn’t know what to say, it always boils down to the panic that settles in when explaining his thoughts to someone besides himself. Even recently when he and Atsumu had come to terms with their past, he hadn’t been able to voice all the things he’d thought over the years.

“I felt like a fraud,” Osamu says, running his tongue over the roof of his mouth. The kids come back around, running past Akaashi now. They force Akaashi to brush shoulders with Osamu and Osamu shoots them a mental message of gratitude.

“I still do, sometimes. Whenever I looked at people around me, it always felt like they were enjoyin’ themselves more than I was. That’s not to say I didn’t have fun playin’ volleyball at all.” Osamu lets out an unamused chuckle, but Akaashi stays silent and patiently waiting for him to continue as they match each other’s steps. The new shoes he’d decided to wear for today’s occasion are starting to bother Osamu around his toe the same time his tongue feels like lead.

“When I looked at how naturally volleyball came to me ‘n then I looked at Tsumu ‘n how hard he worked to bring out the best in others, I think that’s when I realized it meant differently to us. I loved volleyball, ‘n I still do. Tsumu’s just always loved it more ‘n I feel he wouldn’t be the same person he is without it. I didn’t think I had that kind of thing in my life until it was time to think about what I had to do next.”

They reach the end of the block, a cross light signaling them to halt. It’s strange, in many ways, to be talking to someone you’ve known about for years but hadn’t really spoken to until a few months priors. It’s even stranger when said person makes s even stranger when said person makes you feel like you can confide the darkest recesses of your thoughts without any form of judgement. More than the strange feeling, Osamu thinks excitedly, voicing his observations and the deeply rooted insecurities of his heart makes him feel _lighter_ than he has in years.

His heart bleeds with adoration for Keiji.

In the most discrete way possible, he feels into his anorak pocket. “Shit,” he says, hands checking other pockets where he could’ve possibly placed his wallet. “Shit. I left my wallet at the apartment.”

Akaashi frowns, stopping once more where there’s no people. “Did you check everywhere you could’ve put it?” Osamu sighs aggressively, pretending to be frustrated with himself when all he wants to do is crack the biggest smile.

“Yeah, but I don’t feel it.” A pause. “I’m not worried about money or anythin’, but my ID’s are in there ‘n those are difficult to replace. We actually live two blocks away, do ya mind comin’ with me ‘n lookin’ for it?” Akaashi doesn’t hesitate to nod and Osamu has to restrain himself from cackling at how gullible the man he adores is.

“Thanks fer understandin’. Follow me.”

His apartment with Atsumu really is only a few blocks away from the Meguro river. Osamu considers pursuing a career in acting because he feels he’s doing a stellar job in faking worry over his wallet. A part of him begins to feel guilty for lying to Akaashi, but he swallows it down knowing that the outcome will be worth it.

“It’s on the third floor,” Osamu mutters, continuing the façade. When they make it to the hallway, Osamu feels around for his keys.

“Please don’t tell me you also left your keys inside your apartment,” Akaashi jokes. Osamu doesn’t take the bait, schools his worried expression, and moves the keys so that they jingle in his pocket.

“Luck isn’t _that_ horrible to me,” he replies in a mutter, fitting the keys into the keyhole. He struggles with the lock on purpose for a few seconds to give the others a signal before finally getting the door to open.

“Ya can go first,” Osamu says, arm stretching the door open for Akaashi. The hallway is dark, but Akaashi seems to trust Osamu not to be a serial killer and enters anyway. Osamu lets the door close behind them before turning on the lights.

“Surprise!”

Akaashi’s already in the kitchen, so Osamu doesn’t get to see his immediate reaction to the people waiting for him inside the Miya household. By the surprised yelp he hears, he deduces Akaashi had no idea that any of this had been in the works.

“Akaashi!” Bokuto slurs, already drunk with giddiness (and alcohol). His arm is wrapped around Atsumu’s shoulder, and even though he looks overwhelmed, Atsumu’s also smiling at Akaashi. “You’re here!”

“Bokuto… Konoha? Washio… Sarukui, Komi… oh!” There’re peals of laughter in response to the inhumane noise Akaashi lets out. “Shirofuku and Suzumeda!” The two Fukurodani managers join forces to tackle Akaashi into a hug, the rest of the players following suit. Osamu observes them from the hallway, the goofiest grin plastered on his face. Akaashi is yelling them to stop their antics, but the Fukurodani grads aren’t listening and only grip onto him tighter.

In typical twin fashion, Osamu turns to Atsumu at the same time he does and his twin smiles at him, flashing Osamu a thumbs up. When they’ve all exchanged proper greetings, they all sit on the apartment floor and begin digging into the shabu shabu pots Osamu’s prepared and placed in the center.

“I’m pretty sure this is a fire hazard,” Konoha points out, chopsticks waving at the pots and Bokuto hushes him into silence.

“There was no table big enough to accommodate us all, but I really do think this works!” Bokuto’s volume is still the same as if he were outside or at practice. Laughter fills the room, and the conversations carry on. Osamu’s sitting next to Atsumu because they’re the only ones who didn’t go to Fukurodani, so they’re naturally going to be excluded from many conversations.

“Have ya told Akaashi yet?” Atsumu asks him in a quiet voice, quiet enough that no one besides them can listen to the question.

“No… it doesn’t feel right yet.” Osamu frowns down at his plate rice with veggies and meat.

“Ya’ve been sayin’ that since ya told me about how ya feel! Put on some big kid pants, jackass.”

He steels himself at Atsumu’s words, peering over at Akaashi who’s sitting across their circle. Akaashi’s looking at him already, however, and Osamu swallows the urge to look away. His expression is unreadable, but as the seconds go by, he graces Osamu with a slow grin that glimmers all the way to his gray eyes. The younger twin attempts to do the same, but it just ends up lopsided and making Akaashi giggle. His heart flutters.

“Gross,” Atsumu says, pretending to be focused on the floating meat piece closest to him. “I know he’s outta yer league but yer basically married. I don’t know what yer so worried about.”

“Yer one to talk. Ya’ve known Kageyama all yer life ‘n still haven’t said anythin’.” Atsumu’s in the middle of eating the piece of meat he’d been eyeing when his eyes widen and he starts choking. Osamu could pat his back but considers revenge to be a dish best served cold.

“Tsum-tsum, are you okay?” Bokuto asks, proving himself to be the knight in shining armor everyone admires. Bokuto _does_ pat Atsumu’s back to dislodge whatever’s in his throat, but the pats are too forceful and have Atsumu flying forward, straight into his plate of food.

“Oh shit—”

Atsumu’s still choking, eyes now watering from struggling so much. Bokuto looks more concerned as he patiently waits by his side, but Osamu isn’t as nice. His sides begin to hurt from how hard he’s laughing at Atsumu, someone else in the group snickering along. Osamu wants to find out afterward who it is so that they can become best friends.

Dinner ends in the same manner, everyone helping out with the clean-up save for the birthday boy.

“The meat ya chose was very good,” Osamu compliments Atsumu while he’s washing dishes and the older twin stares at him as if he’s grown a second head. The Fukurodani grads have finished their parts and have moved into the living space to continue catching up. Osamu steals a glance at Akaashi once more, finding the man engrossed in conversation with Konoha.

“Am I hearin’ correctly? Yer complimentin’ me?” Atsumu emphasizes the ‘me’ dramatically.

“Fine, I take it back then.”

They leave their apartment available to everyone, even offering the guests to stay the night if they don’t trust themselves getting home. When it hits 22:00, the majority of the guests give their thanks to the Miya twins for the hospitality and wish Akaashi a happy birthday once more before going home. Only Bokuto and Konoha remain, Atsumu sifting through the refrigerator for a boxed cake.

“Happy birthday,” Atsumu says, placing a lone candle on the cake before lighting it up with a lighter he uses for lighting incense. “Wish for somethin’ ‘n blow out yer candle.”

Akaashi seems a bit tired now, but the smile he’s been wearing all night doesn’t lose its intensity when he flashes it down at his cake. Closing his eyes, it appears he makes a wish and blows out the candle a few moments later.

“What’ya wish for?” Bokuto asks with the brightness of a twelve-year-old. It’s difficult to believe the man is nearing thirty and can still be this excited about anything.

Akaashi smiles softly at Bokuto. “I can’t tell you, sorry.”

Konoha finishes cutting the fresh berry cake into equal parts before plating the slices and handing them out. They can now sit at the Miya kitchen table, Osamu opting to stand in the space between Akaashi and Atsumu. For some reason, they continue to banter for a while longer, savoring the cake as they go.

Osamu glances at the time on his phone, noticing that it’s almost midnight. That someone reminds him that he’s got a wrapped box sitting in his room and he excuses himself to go retrieve it.

“What’s this?” Akaashi asks when Osamu returns with it, placing the wrapped object in Akaashi’s peripheral so that he receives it. He’d been shopping at the mall when a red wrapping paper with brown dog patterns had caught his attention behind the Loft display window. It had screamed Akaashi to Osamu back then, the way Akaashi currently looks at it with bright eyes proving his instincts correctly. Bokuto, Konoha, and Atsumu are too busy talking about volleyball to pay them any mind.

Osamu kneels next to Akaashi, the distance between them disappearing. “Open it.”

With the same care Osamu’d shown Akaashi’s present in October, Akaashi is careful to minimize tears to the paper despite how badly Osamu had already wrapped the box. Akaashi is quick to remove the lid of the box as soon as he’s got the paper off, _squeaking_ when he reaches for the calligraphy set inside.

“I think ya already have beautiful penmanship, but it’s somethin’ I thought ya’d like anyway.” Akaashi just keeps smiling, Osamu struck with the sudden urge to beg Akaashi to keep the expression on at all times.

“Miya, this is so thoughtful—”

“Ah ah, there’s more.”

Akaashi peers back down at the box finding the neatly folded white t-shirt that’d stolen Osamu’s heart. Unfolding it with absolute care, Akaashi moves it in front of him to take in the clothing design. In the middle there’s the caricature of a brown owl that has similar eyes to Akaashi and it’s pointing at itself with one of its wings. Underneath are two words in the Latin alphabet: Hoo, me?

Akaashi breaks out into uncontrollable laughter, cheekbones red. Even the rest of the people at the table stop their conversation to see if Akaashi’s okay.

“Wow! That’s a pretty… bad shirt. You’re always making fun of my shirts, but you laugh at that?” Bokuto is pouting, crossing his arms. “Your sense of humor is messed up.”

“I knew ya’d laugh at the caption,” Osamu smirks. The expression falters on his face as Akaashi moves forward, faces only inches away from each other. Osamu can feel Akaashi’s warm breath fanning against his cheek, coming out a bit more intensely, his lungs try to catch up as if part of a marathon.

“Osamu…” Osamu’s ears redden at his given name, and even now, he curses the power Akaashi’s simple decisions have on him.

Akaashi’s expression shifts, forehead creasing, eyebrows knitting together. “Osamu, I— "

It feels like cowardice when he adds a bit of distance between them, pulling out a neglected gold envelope from the very bottom of the box. He justifies his actions by telling himself that Akaashi wouldn’t have looked any further, too caught up in what he’d already seen.

“Ya missed this,” Osamu lifts the envelope, pushing it gently toward him. “Open it, too.”

Akaashi stares at him, Osamu feels his gaze burn holes at the side of his head when Osamu looks away to see the other three men back in their own little world. He only returns his gaze on Akaashi when he hears the tear of the envelope paper, even then avoiding eye contact.

“There’s a letter in there but read it when yer home.” There’s nothing compromising written in it but seeing Akaashi’s live reaction to his words would embarrass him beyond repair. Deftly, Akaashi slips his hand in and retrieves a pair of golden cufflinks, both in the shape of owls. Akaashi runs his fingertips over the designs, again and again until he seems to notice one of Osamu’s particularly loud swallows which brings him back to reality.

“I can’t believe you did this…”

Osamu blinks, not sure what ‘this’ means. “I know they’re a bad omen in lotsa parts of the world, but ya Fukurodani grads still love yer mascot, so…” he trails off softly, scratching the top of his head, Akaashi still not paying attention to his movements.

It’s then, and only then, that Akaashi raises his beautiful gray eyes and Osamu immediately gets lost in them. They glimmer with _something_ , Osamu frustrated that he’s known Akaashi for some time now and still can’t get a read of his true feelings. They shine like the snow does when illuminated by the moonlight during Hyogo winters; their light reminds him of his knives’ steel that never dulls, brilliant regardless of how difficult a day.

“I’m going to hug you, Osamu.” Osamu lets him, lets him wrap his strangely powerful arms around him and burry his head into the crook of Osamu’s neck in an oddly comforting sensation. Akaashi smells like lavender, a crisp reminder of spring when winter finally subsides. Akaashi somehow embodies all of the seasons, Osamu ardently wishing to experience them simultaneously through him.

Akaashi hugs him again on his way out, Bokuto and Konoha already downstairs waiting inside the cab. It’s not as long as the one before, but it’s strong enough to leave Osamu breathless.

“Thank you both for doing this. I’m very happy right now,” Akaashi admits, facing Atsumu before looking at Osamu and keeping his gaze on him a bit longer. He pretends it means nothing.

Akaashi leaves, quietly closing the white door to the Miya apartment behind him. Osamu exhales, and it feels like he’s held enough air to power one of those air balloons that fly around the world.

From the kitchen, Atsumu clicks his tongue and places their dirty cake dishes in the sink before turning on the water. “Dude, yer _so whipped_.”

_Keiji,_

_I hope this letter gets to you safely, even if I do plan on giving it to you in person. I’m not… the best at writing or conveying my thoughts on paper. Actually, I’m not the best at conveying my thoughts in general. You know this. I hope you enjoyed your visible gifts, but as you can tell, there are JR tickets inside this card for a round trip to Nikko. The dates are flexible, but I have busy upcoming months so we might not be able to make this work until February. I think the weather will be perfect for a good hike then._

_Thank you for welcoming me to Tokyo and introducing me to many local eateries. Most of all, thank you for being my friend. I always look forward to our regular adventures, even if it’s just a few blocks down from Tsumu and I’s apartment. Please enjoy another year of life full of health and prosperity._

_Happy Birthday,_

_Osamu_

🍙 🍙 🍙

“Osamu!”

In the middle of the buzzing Ikebukuro Station, his ears clearly make out the voice he’s as of late found himself wishing to hear every day. Akaashi is jogging up to him, hair in disarray and cheeks flushed with pumping blood. It’s not as cold as it had been a month ago, but it’s enough to warrant a fleece jacket in bold purple, green, and red colors. Osamu stops himself from laughing at Keiji looking like a hip father from four decades ago, instead raising his hand to wave awkwardly at him. Osamu can't really make fun of him either because he's wearing the comfortable fox crewneck sweatshirt his grandma got for him on Christmas.

“I’m sorry I’m late. There was service interruption on the Yamanote—”

“Yer good, I ran into the same problem. I just got ‘ere.”

There’re far too many ongoing renovations in the station right now, whatever little sense of direction Osamu boasted tossed out the window.

Osamu looks up at the billboard overheard, as he always does when feeling lose, reading the alerts for all the delays and seeing none for the Nikko-Kinugawa Line. “We should be okay from ‘ere on out. Our platform’s this way,” Osamu gestures with a tilt of his head, feet moving in that direction. Akaashi follows him until he’s walking alongside Osamu, hands coming up to grip the straps of his outdoor backpack. It looks a bit too big on his back, like the shell of a turtle too small to carry something that size. Osamu refuses to point it out, fearing for his life. People glance at them peculiarly, but it’s probably just because they’re two guys taller than 180 centimeters wearing outdoor gear in the middle of Tokyo’s third busiest train station.

They make it to their reserved seats with minutes to spare, Akaashi sighing in relief when he puts his backpack in between his feet.

“Ya sure ya don’t want any help with that?” Osamu asks, eyes glued to the backpack so Akaashi recognizes what he’s talking about.

“It’s okay,” he reassures, bringing down the food tray stowed behind the seat in front of him before unzipping the backpack open and pulling out a neatly knotted plastic bag. Osamu watches Akaashi struggle to unknot the bag, Akaashi’s lips set in a straight line as he concentrates to get to the contents. It’s a battle of wits, but he emerges victorious and pulls out two identical boxes.

“I admittedly stopped by Tokyo Station first to get us some ekiben… I’ve had this one a few times before business trips and I thought it was good.” Keiji hands him the box, Osamu receiving it with two hands.

“Ya didn’t have to,” Osamu says, but the giant smile on his face betrays him once he reads the Kanji on the ekiben. “Sendai beef tongue?” Osamu does laugh at that because Akaashi is _so_ generous and caring, it makes him feel a bit hysterical for not kissing him here, train and its passengers be damned.

Akaashi’s smile falls into something serious but his eyes are lit up with mischief, so Osamu knows he’s not being serious. “It seems you’re uncultured on the modern invention that is… self-warming ekiben!” Akaashi has switched over to his salesman voice, Osamu doubling over in laughter. Akaashi simply plows on.

“You have to time your appetite correctly. If you’re starving, this ekiben is not for you!” he emphasizes the ‘not’. Pulling the food container away from the flimsy cardboard paper around it, Akaashi reveals a clear lid that lets you peek at the tongue beef. His fingers move to tug at a yellow string that is sticking out from a small hole in the container.

“When you’re ready to eat, you just pull this—” Akaash tugs, “and wait ten minutes until your food is ready!” Someone next to them who is attempting to put away their luggage in the overhead compartments stares with a questioning look.

“Keiji.”

Akaashi stops his sales pitch, resting the container on the food tray. “Yes?”

“I’m from Hyogo but that doesn’t mean this’s the first time I’ve had self-warmin’ ekiben. I haven’t had a beef tongue one, though.”

“Well, today’s your day.”

Osamu activates the warming mechanism inside his own ekiben once the train is moving. When his ekiben is just about ready and the train stewardess comes by offering refreshments, Osamu buys two beers for them and hands one to Akaashi.

“You’re making me drink in the morning?” Keiji side-glances him, but Osamu just shrugs and starts digging into his food. The rice is a bit too hard for what he’s used to, but the beef tongue is great quality for an ekiben. Akaashi’s a hypocrite because he finishes the beer before Osamu.

“This’s great, Akaashi,” Osamu says with a mouthful, speaking quietly as to not disturb other passengers. He reads a book on the two-hour trip to Nikko, Akaashi doing the same.

It’s noon when they arrive at Tobu-nikko Station, a bit later than they’d wanted, but Akaashi says it’s alright as long as they got there safely. Osamu can’t argue with that logic, immediately leading them down the main street that ends at the bottom of Toshugo Shrine. It’s no longer January cold, but whenever he breathes, Osamu’s breath materializes in front of him.

“Oh, is that Shinkyo Bridge?” asks Osamu, looking at the bridge that runs parallel to the one they’re crossing over. The road has carried them out of the small town and into a river bend at the base of two mountains. Akaashi nods, whipping out a professional looking camera from his oversized backpack.

Osamu blinks at the object in the man’s hands. “Ya’ve been carryin’ that the entire time?”

Akaashi stares at him, clearly confused by the question. “Yes. I like to take pictures when I go on trips like this. I’ll get one of you today so you can update your current LINE profile picture.” He says it so casually, it leaves Osamu reeling as Akaashi’s already beginning their long trek up the mountain steps. The steps are flatter than other shrines, exhausting Osamu more than higher ones. Akaashi has to wait behind for him a couple of times, Osamu’s calves burning in embarrassment.

At the top of the mountain, they stop to drink some water from the trek up, looking around at all the people doing the same. There’re people walking up the path to Nikkozan Rinnoji Temple which sits majestically across from them. It’s a predominately red building that’s been restored many times over, says so on the plaque next to the entrance. Not really looking to endure the long wait just to enter the building, Akaashi and Osamu settle on following the path deeper into the mountain instead.

This new path opens up, is defined by gravel with only a few tire marks on it, rock walls covered with green moss serving as barricades to keep people from wandering off. It’s got a killer incline, Osamu’s right ankle protesting a bit but keeping himself distracted by the sight of all the tall, leafless evergreen trees. Akaashi leads, only stopping when they reach the stone tori gate and the open area that leads to the central shrine, a majestic, red five-story pagoda to Osamu’s left.

Osamu pulls out the tickets to hand at the Omotemon of the same color, the guards letting them through with a welcome. A chill runs down Osamu’s spine when he makes eye contact with the two guardian deities carved into the gate, shrugging it off once they enter the shrine.

The Sanjinko by the immediate entrance are red with intricate depictions of various animals, especially elephants that envisioned with the highest of luxuries mortals can enjoy. Yomeimon lives up to its name, located not too far away from the Sanjinko, a mirage of blinding golden underneath the midday sun; with so many unique carvings etched by hand into the wood that keeps the structure in place, Osamu feels overwhelmed. His and Akaashi’s hands brush against each other here when a stranger bumps into Akaashi a bit too forcefully, neither protesting at their situation. Osamu revels in the sensation as they continue to walk alongside each other, never putting more space between them.

“I don’t remember it being this incredible,” Akaashi comments, silently snapping a few pictures without flash.

There’re a few buildings that catch their attention, most of them for souvenirs, but a vending machine of some sort sitting by the door of one catches Osamu’s attention. As he gets closer, he reads that it’s a fortune vending machine of some sort. Osamu takes out a five-hundred-yen coin and deposits it into the appropriate opening, a rolled-up fortune appearing at the bottom port.

The small text almost gives Osamu a headache, but he reads the summary of his luck for the rest of the year anyway. Maybe he should stop making fun of Akaashi for not seeing without his glasses.

_Your life will prosper and bring about a last love._

_Your ambitions will bring you abundant wealth._

“What’s that?” Akaashi asks, coming up next to him and brushing shoulders. The air is cold, even colder at this altitude, but Akaashi’s shoulder takes the problem away, radiating the most pleasant warmth at the points where their shoulders touch.

“I put a coin to get a fortune.” Osamu hums, pretending to read over the fortune again and nodding in approval. “It says I’m gonna get super rich.” Akaashi peeks at the fortune, interested, but Osamu moves it away to make him pout on purpose. It works, but Akaashi doesn’t press, walking toward another area of the shrine.

On their way out of the shrine, Osamu notices the line for people buying zodiac charms, intrigued by the shop’s selection. “Give me a second,” he says, certain Akaashi will hear and follow him whenever he feels like it.

There’re pieces of woodwork for all the zodiac animals, each individually hand painted with charms with various purposes, most to ward off spirits or curses with ill intentions.

“Oh. That charm’s good for businesses. Will you be getting it for Nakamura?” Akaashi asks when Osamu picks up an elongated, wooden hexagon depicting a pig.

“No,” Osamu smiles, “it’s for me.”

Akaashi raises an eyebrow, patiently waiting as Osamu hands the man behind the stand two one-thousand-yen bills. Osamu doesn’t say much even then, waits until they’re descending the steps back into town to finally face Keiji.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about it, ‘n I told Tsumu, but I want to open a restaurant myself.”

Besides him, Akaashi says nothing, boots digging into the gravel path as they reach the river. The gravel turns into stone for a few meters before it’s the cement of a familiar, long winding road.

“Not yet,” Osamu licks his lips. They feel dry in this mountain air. “But soon enough where I can start thinkin’ about it. I’ve meant to tell Nakamura about it…”

Akaashi just listens, eyes shining brightly as if Osamu is about to divulge the secrets of the cosmos to him. He doesn’t know how much longer he can ignore this.

“Me tellin’ ya about this means I _want’cha_ to tell me what ya think,” Osamu chuckles nervously, fiddling with the strap of his own backpack. Curse Akaashi for making Osamu pick up his nervous habits.

“I think you’ve already made up your mind that you’re going to do it,” Keiji explains, looking away and staring at the blue February sky. “But for what it’s worth, I think it’s a brilliant idea.”

Osamu feels lighter at the words, hating how much he’d been looking forward to something of the like, lungs inhaling the crisp mountain air.

Akaashi continues. “I haven’t known you as long as everyone else in your life, but you love food. You love making things for others. You love sharing food… I think that’s all you really need to start a successful restaurant.” He pauses, fingers coming up to tap his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe some money, too.”

Osamu laughs at that, face hurting at the smile he’s giving Akaashi, eyes wrinkling at the edges. “Yeah, I def’ly need money.”

On the train ride back to Tokyo, Akaashi noisily eats half a bag of sweets he buys on the main avenue. They’ve dimmed the lights in the train car, but that doesn’t stop him from digging through his selection. He’s got three pudding cups, saving the strawberry and salty-sweet ones for when he’s back home while consuming the Nikko specialty pudding. It’s pretty tasty, a solid critique based off the bite Akaashi offers him. Akaashi’s also brought back a selection of fried yuba manju of various flavors, eating an anko piece before having a matcha one.

(“For Bokuto when I see him in Osaka this week!” he defends himself from Osamu, cheeks pink in embarrassment when there’s really no reason because Osamu already knows Akaashi eats his weight in food.)

Osamu finishes his mitarashi dango before the train even leaves Tobu-nikko Station. Maybe he should take notes from Akaashi’s preparedness.

Still, they’re both too tired to make dinner plans for when they arrive in Tokyo. Osamu figures it’d be too selfish to drag Akaashi anywhere when he’s already done enough by dropping everything to make this day trip possible.

The city skyline returns into view as the train speeds ahead, the bright skies of the mountains now behind them; it’s the same sky anywhere you go but nonetheless feels vastly different.

“You can come over and try out different restaurant menus at my place. I can also come over if that’s more convenient,” Akaashi whispers, head dropping to rest on Osamu’s shoulder instead of the window on his other side. It’s an awkward angle, Osamu’s chin meets his throat in an effort to keep peering at the way Akaashi’s eyelashes flutter close and stay closed. The twin’s heart skips a beat as his sense of smell is overtaken by that all-too-familiar scent of lavender.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Akaashi reiterates, more asleep than awake.

“Okay, yeah. I’d like that very much.”

Akaashi doesn’t reply, softly snoring and leaving his arm slung over Osamu’s armrest. Slowly, hesitantly, despite no one paying attention to them at the back of this train car, Osamu reaches over and holds Keiji’s warm and soft hand in his.

“Samu, if ya don’t fuckin’ tell Akaashi that ya like him, I’ll kick yer ass ‘n steal him from ya!”

“Fuck ya, arrogant pig!”

🍙 🍙 🍙

Everything finally explodes in an unexpected turn of events the third time Akaashi comes over and Atsumu’s out of town with his volleyball kids in another prefecture.

Akaashi has been coming over since December, but they frequent each other’s homes more often after their trip to Nikko. Osamu feels like it’s all a guise for spending more time together, at least on his behalf, but Akaashi only says he’s here to offer assistance in food. They’re in the middle of making different flavored onigiri, some for dinner while others are a test for Onigiri Miya.

(“That’s a fuckin’ cool name,” Atsumu gives Osamu his vote of confidence.

“Ya only like it ‘cos yer name’s also gonna be in it.”

“Fuck off!”)

Akaashi’s concentrating on getting the rice in his hands into a particular shape when suddenly he becomes too frustrated and blurts:

“Osamu! What are we doing?”

Osamu blinks at him, looking down at rice in Akaashi’s hands, clearly confused. “Makin’ onigiri?” he offers, tearing a frightening growl out of Akaashi.

Akaashi’s expression darkens, smashing the rice onto the cutting board in front of him. “No, you idiot, what are _we_ doing?”

Osamu’s mouth opens and closes, no words managing to come out. Akaashi’s face is going through millions of emotions and Osamu can’t read it—can’t see what he’s thinking beyond the sudden burst of confrontation. Blunt Akaashi is terrifying and even more difficult to appease.

“Why did you give me a gorgeous calligraphy set?” The words are still angry, but Akaashi somehow seems lost now, losing the edge of his previous words. “Why did you give me a shirt that’s so ridiculous, even Bokuto makes fun of me for it? Why do you always indulge me in coming to things even if you’ve never been there before? Why is your food so good? Why are you so good to me? Why—”

Osamu continues to sit there, stunned and lips chapped, even when Akaashi’s voice cracks and there’s tears forming at the soft edges of his eyes. Osamu needs to stop this, needs to get his ass up and—

“How can you do all of this and expect me to not like you?”

The words are a gunshot that rings for minutes afterward.

Akaashi takes a deep breath, cheeks red but tears never falling. Before Osamu can move an inch, Akaashi whips around to lean over the sink, arms at either side supporting his weight.

An eternity passes, Osamu simply staring in shock as the rise and fall of Akaashi’s back signals his breathing is normalizing. It doesn’t sound like he’s crying either, the tears that had threatened to spill earlier more likely out of anger or adrenaline. Osamu doesn’t know much of anything right now, except that he’s as light as a balloon again and Akaashi’s been responsible for every single instance of that.

All the months of yearning since the night at the izakaya, the then insignificant signs always adding a droplet of water into the ocean of love he now harbors for Keiji.

Osamu stands, metal chair legs scraping against Akaashi’s wood floor and it makes him wince. Akaashi also seems to tense, back straightening but not turning around to face Osamu.

“Sorry,” Akaashi finally apologizes to the cupboard drilled onto wall, voice back to its controlled façade. It can work on anyone else, but right now, Osamu hates Akaashi’s trying it on him. “I’ll leave in a bit. Just—"

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence because Osamu’s wrapping his arms around Akaashi, head dropping to rest on Akaashi’s shoulder blade. The man who’s stolen his heart yelps but relaxes immediately the moment Osamu’s fingers rub circles at his sides. They stand in silence for a bit longer.

“Keiji, look at me.”

Akaashi complies, Osamu loosening his grip to allow Keiji to turn around and face him. They’re so close now, Osamu’s senses working overtime and picking up Keiji’s moisturizer.

“Hi,” he finally manages with dreamy sigh because Keiji looks absolutely perfect wearing Osamu’s apron while fragments of rice still cling onto his hands. _From shaping onigiri you taught him how to mold_ , Osamu’s brain decides to tack on. The domesticity of it all hits Osamu, then, realizing that fucking shit—he’s been in _love_ with Akaashi Keiji for months. Osamu feels like they’ve wasted so much time dancing around one another, thinking his attraction to the man had been one-sided when Keiji had been reciprocating his feelings all this time. He removes Akaashi’s glasses, placing them on the kitchen counter behind him.

“Samu?” He does notice Keiji’s staring at him in that beige cardigan Keiji had bought at GU and Osamu’s learned to associate him with. Akaashi’s eyelashes hang low, dark gray eyes peering intently at Osamu, waiting for him to move even a millimeter. Anticipation builds in Osamu’s brain, sending signals all throughout his body in places where their bodies connect. Osamu doesn’t think then, doesn’t do much of that around Akaashi, acting on instinct instead when he traps Keiji between his body and the kitchen counter. Keiji’s breath hitches, eyes going a bit wide but Osamu schools his expression.

“Osamu?” Akaashi asks again, eyes flickering back and forth between the arms that are entrapping him and Osamu’s face. “What are you doing?”

Osamu laughs, a bit of pink most likely dusting his cheeks; he feels a bit delirious with adrenaline but doesn’t really care. Not when Keiji is smiling involuntarily at his laugh, not quite understanding what’s so funny but doing so nonetheless and it’s more than cute. The tension that had been present a few minutes ago is gone, their actions speaking louder than any words ever could.

“Keiji,” Osamu whispers, trying his best to not claim Keiji’s lips once and for all. Keiji only smiles more, but he can still feel the hesitancy coming from the old Fukurodani setter. His eyes look like they contain the intensity of a thousand moons now, shining brightly in the night sky. The realization punches Osamu in the stomach and he’s truly an idiot for not having said anything sooner.

Atsumu’s _I told ya so_ ’s rings loudly in his ears.

Before Keiji can say anything again, Osamu is grabbing Keiji by the waist and bringing him even closer. _Not yet_ , his mind screams, but to hell with it. He’s spent too much time complying with the _not yet_ ’s of his brain. “Osamu,” Keiji says in a bit of a squeak, and then, “please tell me what you’re thinking. I can’t be guessing these kinds of things as if we’re in one of those pretentious romance novels I spend all day editing.”

He leans into Osamu’s face, eyelashes doing that thing where they’re fluttering close to his cheeks before Keiji is peering back up into Osamu’s eyes.

“I’m just a bit upset that you beat me to this,” Osamu punctuates by bringing his right hand to cup Keiji’s cheek, thumb brushing the thin hair growing at his jawbone. Akaashi’s eyes close at his ministrations, body relaxing against Osamu’s, so he continues gently. “But Keiji, I’ve felt like this for months.”

Breath hitching again, Akaashi seems to will his eyes to open because he’s staring at Osamu like he’s hanging the backdrop stars to Akaashi’s moon, completing the night sky together.

“That’s a relief,” Keiji says, quieter this time, almost hesitantly. Osamu suppresses a laugh at the fact that these words are all Keiji’s brain can produce, Keiji who works with words for a living. Akaashi then proceeds to peck Osamu’s nose, earning him a snort, his lips sliding off the bridge and onto Osamu’s cheekbone, breath fanning across Osamu’s face.

At some point, he’s managed to stand in between Akaashi’s legs, their sheer proximity rendering the late winter air in the apartment obsolete. Hundreds of ideas run through his mind like a marathon, none of them including Keiji finishing the onigiri that’s been neglected on the countertop.

“Keiji, I’m going to kiss ya.”

Akaashi forgoes words, nodding in response. Osamu adjusts his thumbs at either side of Akaashi’s jaw and leans in, brushing their noses gently before it’s their lips that meet. The sound is deafening to his ears, addicting even, so he goes in for _more_. Akaashi doesn’t shy away, meeting his passionate kisses with the same fever. They part for air after minutes, lungs burning before they’re at it again. The next time they run out of air, Osamu laughs, biting down on his reddened lip; it feels like it’s about to tear, the thought sending a wave of blood straight to his dick.

Keiji seems to catch the reeling thoughts in Osamu’s head because he’s looking amusingly at him, blush still present. “What is it?” Osamu swallows thickly at the question, settling on a bright laugh.

“I expected ya here today thinkin’ ya wanted to make dinner ‘n practice fake restaurant menus on yer day off which’s supposed to be spent with someone ya treasure. Why didn’t we both realize what that meant?” Osamu shakes his head, opting to meet Keiji’s confused gaze. “Now, though, I’m thinkin’ about somethin’ else I wanna try. Is that okay?” Osamu asks, already assuring Akaashi’s okay with everything they do from here on out.

“Okay, I trust you,” Keiji says, chewing on his lip while staring at Osamu’s bruised one.

When Osamu does it, Keiji jumps, straightening abruptly as if electrocuted. Osamu smiles, as if he hadn’t just rubbed himself against Akaashi’s leg, bringing the hand that had just been caressing Akaashi’s cheek down to wrap his fingers around one of Keiji’s thin wrists. Keiji’s frowning at this point, but the glint in his eyes betrays him as he leans forward, Osamu lowering himself the few centimeters that separate them to see the other man eye to eye.

“You okay?”

“Osamu,” says Keiji for what feels like the millionth time in the past five minutes, voice stern, but once again, the molten pools of his eyes giving too much away; Osamu’s grown confident in the developed skill of reading Akaashi since the night they’d gone out with the Black Jackals.

“I…” Keiji’s wets his lips, “what about dinner?” The heat stirring at the pit of his stomach is telling him to tell dinner to fuck off, but Akaashi’s right. That doesn’t mean Osamu’s going to listen.

“That can wait,” Osamu mutters, leaning in to capture Keiji in another fervent kiss.

This time, his teeth slightly sink down into Keiji’s lip before he’s sliding his tongue into his mouth. Keiji seems to give up completely the moment he cards all of his fingers through Osamu’s short, spiky hair, tugging lightly every time Osamu attempts to pull back in need of air.

Despite Keiji’s attempts, he does run out of breath when his lungs begin to sting, prompting Akaashi to let go, cheeks flushed and lips looking absolutely ravished. “I’m thinkin’ of somethin’ ‘sides onigiri for dinner right now,” Osamu whispers huskily, eyelids feeling heavier. “If ya’ll let me, ‘course.”

Keiji visibly and audibly gulps, a nervous smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “That sounds a bit selfish,” says Keiji, and has the gall to pout. “What about dinner for me?”

“Akaashi,” Osamu petulantly whines, switching to Keiji’s surname on purpose.

Osamu continues to ask for Keiji’s permission, will continue to do so regardless of how in sync they become. “Can I?” He asks open-endedly, but it’s been a question that’s been building between them for the past few minutes. Akaashi doesn’t even wait a single heartbeat, a soft yet confident “yes” filling the silence this time. Osamu doesn’t wait for another response because he’s already reaching to unzip Keiji’s slacks, eliciting a small gasp from the other man.

“Lemme take care of ya, then.”

The zipper being pulled down isn’t as loud as he’d expected, Tokyo’s vibrant nightlife outside the open window drowning out the anxiety coursing through Osamu’s veins. Osamu makes quick work of Keiji’s underwear by pulling at the elastic waistband in one swift movement. Keiji is already hard, cock springing from the constraints of his underwear.

“I’m really pissed off I didn’t confess to ya first. I’m even more mad that we’ve had to wait all this time to do this,” Osamu half jokes with a smirk before grabbing the base of Keiji’s dick. Keiji gasps, thighs twitching and placing slight pressure on Osamu’s head. Osamu isn’t stupid, fully aware that what he needs with Keiji right now is something long and drawn out. So, as he keeps his fist firmly at Keiji’s base, his lips decide to trail throughout the expanse of the man’s thighs.

The salty taste of skin reaches his senses as he dips closer, nearing the junction between Keiji’s leg and nether region. He mirrors his ministrations on Keiji’s other thigh before craning his neck to meet Keiji’s gaze. Above him, Keiji is looking at him with blown, dark pupils, lips red and Osamu’s immediate response is to smirk and wet his lips. When he manages to put his lips on the tip of Keiji’s dick, Osamu looks above through his eyelashes to take in Keiji’s hungry look.

Keiji is sweating now with his eyes tightly closed, his usually messy hair now plastered onto his forehead by a thin sheen of sweat. Osamu takes that as his invitation to begin bobbing his head on Keiji’s length. The vein running on the underside of Keiji’s cock pulses underneath his ministrations, so Osamu takes advantage of the sensitivity. Deliberately, slowly, Osamu detaches himself from Keiji’s cock and swirls his tongue around the cockhead, grazing his teeth expertly against the edges of the excess foreskin.

Osamu admittedly hasn’t done this in little less than a year, prioritizing everything else in his life. Still, sucking Keiji’s dick seems like intuition, one that’s telling Osamu’s tongue to trace that particular vein underneath. Maybe this is a new dream worth prioritizing.

Keiji bites back what could’ve been a particularly loud moan by sinking the entire row of his top teeth onto his lower lip. He wants to continue examining the small reactions Keiji is putting on, but something tells him he’ll get to indulge them sooner with more frequency, so he slides his mouth off until only the tip of Keiji’s cock is left inside his mouth. The sounds Keiji is making intensify, and the carefully guarded control after his outburst from earlier long gone, brushing Osamu’s ego as he smirks around Keiji’s cockhead before he’s inhaling sharply, taking as much as he can into his mouth.

“Shit,” Keiji curses and makes a noise behind his throat resembling a choking sound. Osamu process the cursing in time because Keiji’s nails are digging into his scalp painfully. It’s at this unfortunate moment that Osamu’s gag reflex kicks in, eyes watering at the edges as he wills himself to maintain control for the sake of pleasing Keiji. Akaashi seems to sense Osamu’s sudden distress because his grip on Osamu’s short, dark hair loosens, fingers now carding through the strands soothingly.

“Sorry, Keiji,” Osamu apologizes, detaching himself briefly before Keiji’s cursing at his own sensitivity, panting heavily but trying to be as quiet as possible. Osamu goes back to sucking the ever-loving lights out of him.

“You’re going to be the end of me. Shit, we haven’t even—” A particularly forceful and wet suck has Keiji reeling again, mouth parting and staying that way as he gasps for air. “—fuck.”

Hearing Keiji curse has Osamu’s own erection pressing painfully against his jeans and tenting against his zipper. He doesn’t notice when his body betrays him and begins to move on its own accord. Unzipping his pants is too much of a task for his brain at the moment, so he settles on rutting against his free hand, palming lightly at his clothed cock and eliciting a series of moans from his own mouth. Keiji seems to appreciate the humming around his cock because he’s now throwing his head back, exposing his throat’s deliciously flushed skin.

“Osamu—” Keiji inhales particularly loud, painful even, “Osamu, please.”

But instead of finishing Keiji off, Osamu is feeling particularly selfish and detaches his mouth from Keiji’s erect cock with an audible pop. Osamu looks at Keiji, the man looking completely debauched in his sweat and flushed skin. Shakily, Osamu stands between Keiji’s thighs again, purposefully positioning his erection against Keiji’s naked thigh, the rough material of Osamu’s jeans creating a delicious friction. Osamu wants to get rid of all clothes that are separating them.

Somehow, the boiling feeling coursing through his veins simmers down when he looks at the way Keiji is staring back at him, eyes shining with a brilliance that swallows Osamu’s lust momentarily. It’s more than lust, it looks like—

“Who taught you to give head like that? On second thought, I don’t want to know that right now,” Keiji whispers close to his lips, faces a few millimeters from each other.

It’s sinful, the way Keiji speaks those words in a matter that have Osamu groaning in discomfort at his own erection. Keiji isn’t looking at him, though. He’s looking at Osamu’s lips, probably at the way they’re pulling up into a small smile. With a newfound adrenaline and ambition, Osamu dances them over toward the dinner table and pushes Keiji onto the table, leading Keiji to lean his body onto it as he props himself on his elbows, silently taking in all of Osamu.

“This is gonna be kinda gross, tell me if ya don’t like it.”

Osamu leans forward hesitantly, still giving Akaashi the opportunity to turn away, and presses his lips against Keiji’s when he doesn’t. It’s softer, hoping to convey not only the want he holds for Keiji in his heart but the hope he also clings onto. As he sees Keiji lean back, sees the way his hair is tousled messily everywhere, the way he looks absolutely debauched and they haven’t even properly fucked yet, Osamu feels giddy about this happening.

Reuniting with Keiji months ago, he’d never expected for such a thoughtful, intelligent, and free soul to be remotely interested in a man with no hobbies beyond cooking and volleyball. Not that Keiji ever held such presumptions, he’d later learn, but it just seemed too good to believe, impossible that a man of Keiji’s caliber could deem Osamu worthy of his company.

(“You’re silly,” Keiji later dismisses, laughing teasingly him when Osamu passingly opens up about his old insecurities. “The whole concept of people deserving one another is outdated. Stop thinking like that, Osamu.” Osamu is a smart man, so he doesn’t find more excuses to give Akaashi and never thinks like this again.)

Miya Osamu admires being able to see Akaashi Keiji like this, his free, leaking erection caught between their bodies. Burying his nose into the crook of Keiji’s neck, Osamu enjoys the warmth that radiates from the body beneath him. Inhaling, he instinctively wraps his arms around Keiji’s waist, bringing him impossibly closer, the soft puffs of their joint breathing the only sound in the silent kitchen. Even Tokyo is at a standstill for this.

“Osamu?” asks Keiji softly, and Osamu doesn’t have to see his face from this angle to know that he’s probably worried Keiji with his sudden docility. It’s scary, Osamu thinks. A few months ago, the thought of dating someone hadn’t even occurred to him, seeking to make his dreams in Tokyo come true. He’d been given the opportunity to fulfill them in a new city, do whatever he’d wanted in the realm of possibilities. His parents, Atsumu, and all of his friends had believed that his happiness would end with volleyball, and perhaps that’s why they’d clung onto it for so long.

Miya Osamu is good at everything but passionate about nothing, he’d long ago learned that about himself and lived by those words. That was until he’d recognized food _did_ bring him happiness, that competing in volleyball became a drag and no longer something he’d wanted to do; he also felt happiness when the unintentional brushing of hands with a man made him feel butterflies in the way his first kiss with a girl did.

Then, Keiji re-entered his life and somehow, his presence has solidified all Osamu had ever wanted in life but never voiced. With Keiji, he’s learnt to see the world through different eyes while still wanting more. With Keiji, he found himself wishing for a better tomorrow, wishing for something to fill the emptiness that crawled under his skin whenever Atsumu would share how happy he was with volleyball, how happy he was with his friends.

( _Their friends_ , Osamu’s voice amends now.)

At some point, Osamu’d given up and believed that denying it all would be a solution. With Keiji, it felt different.

Osamu no longer felt an obligation to fill the emptiness, believing it’s okay to not love the same things everyone else does and build his own happiness out of things _he_ _does_.

Osamu merely smiles against Keiji’s sticky, sweaty skin, curling his fingers into the soft fabric of his cardigan. Akaashi’s someone who can afford dry-cleaning every day of the week but doesn’t, Keiji’s fabric softener scented clothes always easing the chemical levels in Osamu’s brain. Indulging on the last seconds of his weakness, Osamu takes one last shaky breath before craning his neck up to Keiji’s level, breathing a small puff of air into Keiji’s left ear.

Beneath him, Keiji shudders. “Sorry,” Osamu whispers his apology sincerely, and just like that, he’s back at it. Keiji swallows audibly, slightly confused. “I didn’t properly finish suckin’ ya off,” whispers Osamu, “but that’s ‘cos I wanna ask ya for somethin’.”

Osamu moves closer, taking part of Keiji’s ear into his mouth. Keiji moans, his palms flattening against Osamu’s hips, the younger twin feeling their warmth radiate and burn the area in which they rest.

“Keiji,” Osamu whispers into Keiji’s ear again, “I want ya to fuck me.” Keiji’s breath hitches, and Osamu doesn’t really need to see his face to know how Akaashi’s looking right now.

For a second Osamu thinks he’s being too bold, but he remembers all the times Keiji had quietly returned his feelings through small actions, all the times Keiji has never been reluctant to do what Osamu asks of him instead doing everything heart-stopping diligence. It’s selfish, he knows, but it’s the time to put all his cards on the table and be upfront on what he wants. Osamu’s brain presents a problem.

“Sorry, I forgot to ask. Have ya done this before? ‘S okay if ya haven’t. If that’s the case, then jus’ ignore—”

“I have. But Osamu,” says Keiji, voice dangerously low, “are you sure?” Osamu hums against flushed skin, opting to rut against Keiji’s, eliciting a moan from the man below Osamu. Osamu assumes it works when Keiji jolts and lets out a muffled moan.

“Samu, seriously. I’m starting to get annoyed that you didn’t want to finish making onigiri before doing this.” It’s a stupid statement coming from someone who just his dick sucked, especially for someone the likes of Keiji. Nevertheless, Osamu finds himself laughing, moaning immediately after when he grinds against Keiji’s bare thigh. Something flashes by Keiji’s eyes before his bright orbs lose their glint, transforming into something more dangerous, animalistic.

“Okay,” Keiji swallows, “all right.” Suddenly, with the force Osamu has seen the setter use only a few times on the court, Keiji has their positions reversed, Osamu pinned on the table below him. Keiji’s gaze flickers at the clock built into the stove behind him. Osamu follows his gaze, noticing it’s fifteen minutes past five and that the streets below are getting noisier with people going out. The silence of the kitchen is a stark contrast, the only sounds belonging to their mingling, soft pants and the silent hum of the refrigerator working overtime.

Keiji leans in, taking the expanse of skin that connects his throat and jaw into his mouth, biting harshly until Osamu lets out a pained moan. Keiji, as if realizing his brusque ministrations, begins to suckle apologetically. Warm palms are now underneath Osamu’s t-shirt, exploring cold skin and leaving blazing trails in their wake. “Now the rice is cold,” Keiji complains short of a growl, and it induces the rise of goosebumps throughout Osamu’s body. “This is your fault for being so impatient,” says Keiji. “Normal people would have just told me they liked me back after I confessed, not sucked my dick while I rolled onigiri.”

Quickly, he tears his hands away from Osamu and pulls at the hem of his blue t-shirt, pulling it over Osamu’s head in one swift movement. Keiji is quick, and if Osamu weren’t already blushing, he’s sure Keiji’s actions would have given him an instant erection. His thoughts become incoherent the moment Keiji’s lips latch onto Osamu’s left nipple, nibbling softly at the bud and then swirling his tongue in obscene circles. His back is beginning to feel the sharp pain of being laid flat on a wooden table, but then Keiji is blowing a warm puff of air onto his nipple and Osamu sees white.

The man above him is quick once more, shifting his attention to Osamu’s other nipple at the same moment Osamu feels burning fingers dip into the waistband of his jeans. Osamu elicits a moan, shutting his eyes at the sensation.

“Keiji, please,” Osamu whines when Keiji’s fingers linger far too long on the same spot.

“Be quiet,” Keiji hushes him, his mouth latching itself onto Osamu’s collar bone. Keiji’s other free hand is pinning Osamu to the table by the hips, rubbing smooth circles where it rests. With a forceful yank, Keiji manages to take Osamu’s pants off after popping its button loose and zipper open. Osamu is now clad in underwear, looking at Keiji while biting his slightly swollen lower lip.

“Keiji, love…” Osamu says, dropping his teasing, and urgently lifting his hips up toward Keiji to get some form of relief. He can feel himself getting harder as he ruts gently, Keiji’s hand coming to pin him once more in a firm manner.

One of Keiji’s calloused thumbs has made its way to Osamu’s other nipple, applying as little pressure as possible while still sending sensations coursing through Osamu’s body.

“Keiji,” Osamu says, and he feels parched. His throat is raspy, his voice reduced to nothing more than a whisper at this point. “Please. I need ya.”

Something seems to snap because Keiji’s body heat is suddenly gone, Osamu regaining some form of semblance and thought because the oxygen floods into his lungs once again. He doesn’t see Keiji leave the kitchen, but he knows the other man is loudly rustling through his work bag in the living space for something Osamu assumes to be a condom and a lube, making more heat rush to his dick.

“Ya were that confident ya were gonna get laid, eh?” Osamu laughs when Keiji comes back but shuts up immediately and cries, mewls pathetically when Keiji appeases him by running his fingers along the planes of Osamu’s body. “I’ve got you, Samu,” Keiji reassures him tenderly, returning to his ministrations.

A faint squirting sound is heard, and then there’s a slick finger probing at Osamu’s entrance before he can deduce further. Keiji inserts a single finger into the tight space, maybe once he deems the entrance lubricated enough, which has Osamu seeing constellations in the ceiling above.

He hisses at the slight pain, earning him encouraging words of reassurance from Keiji against his collarbone. “It’s okay,” he says, eyelashes dancing against Osamu’s neck and his mouth placing kisses all over the skin. As expected, Osamu relaxes after a few shallow thrusts and Keiji decides to insert another finger into him. This time, Osamu is moaning in pleasure, Akaashi’s fingers no longer uncomfortable.

It’s like that; Keiji’s two fingers brushing the delicate insides of his inner walls before Keiji pushes his luck and inserts a final third. Osamu is gyrating his hips against his fingers now, cock painfully erect once more. He catches Keiji staring intently at him and judging by the way Keiji is looking at him, Osamu against the kitchen table has him really turned on.

“That’s it,” Keiji murmurs, his free hand coming to his own erection and giving it a few pumps. Osamu’s not really registering everything around him at this point because Keiji is pushing him forward, Osamu instantly hissing when the burning flesh of his chest makes contact with the cool surface of the table. There’s a loss of warmth, giving Osamu a chance to replenish his lungs with oxygen.

When Keiji enters him some time after that, condom and all, Osamu loses the air he’d just taken in and groans at the sensation of being torn in half, even with Keiji prepping him. Keiji doesn’t move, and probably won’t until he knows Osamu feels sufficiently ready for the brief pain that will result from his movements. Keiji waits for Osamu, Osamu grabbing onto the edge of the table, knuckles white. Through gritted teeth, Osamu exhales.

“Ya can move now, Keiji,” he manages to croak, and when Keiji does, he moans relishing the calm before the storm. Keiji starts off slowly, but soon Osamu begins to meet his thrusts and that somehow sets a pace for both of them. Osamu’s chest hurts, the friction against his chest irritating the skin there. Osamu doesn’t care about that or the messy noises he’s making, doesn’t care when the edges of his vision begin to blur.

Osamu thinks he can get used to Keiji treating him like he’s precious, thinks that maybe he deserves this. He doesn’t just fuck Osamu; Osamu hates himself for how corny his thoughts are, but Keiji caters to his needs as if they’re doing something _more_ than the sex he’s had with everyone else in his life. It’s a scary thought, he realizes now as he’s getting banged into his twin brother's dining table.

And that’s just it, isn’t it? Both idiots have managed to fall in love within a few months.

His thoughts quickly dissipate, however, when Keiji brushes particularly close to his prostate. Keiji’s thrusts come quicker, Osamu finally being able to prop himself on his arms to reduce the pain of the friction. He’s sure his eyes are half-lidded, black hair filthy with sweat. Osamu feels his upper body give out and he collapses forward on the table, screaming at the top of his lungs, neighbors be damned. Keiji’s hitting his prostate repeatedly sending Osamu into delirium.

“Keiji,” he croaks, voice above a whisper. Keiji comes first, probably long overdue from the overstimulation Osamu created when sucking his cock. Being inside Osamu is the last straw, and he comes with a quiet moan of pleasure. Osamu can feel the moment the man’s entire body tenses before he collapses onto Osamu’s back. Keiji continues thrusting, small lazy circles. Their angle shifts just then, just the slightest bit, but it has Keiji pressing Osamu up the table, Osamu’s oversensitive cock brushing against the edge of the table before he’s done; it takes just two more erratic rubs, Osamu coming with arms thrown over his eyes.

He doesn’t know at what point they make it back to his room, how Akaashi manages to clean them both up, just feels the foreign yet so familiar body pressed against him.

“I hate you for making me miss dinner. You’re going to have to make me my favorite food later,” Akaashi warns, voice sweet and sounding far away.

Osamu recalls all the nights he’s fallen asleep with his phone in his hand, wishing for Akaashi to be here with him, never admitting it to anyone least of all himself. A smile crawls onto his face, and it’s all the energy he can muster before he passes out.

Osamu panics when he wakes up alone, sunlight warming his face unevenly through the blinds the way they do every morning he sleeps. He removes the sheets from his body, notices he's in a shirt and boxers before his blood runs cold; he’s always done so when he wakes up alone on the days he knows he’s not supposed to like when Atsumu had opted for an extra early morning jog or his grandma had gone outside to tend to their gardens. The memories come back to him, making him act quicker and bolt out of his room.

Akaashi’s sitting by the window in the living area, wearing one of Osamu's sleeveless undershirts and far-too-big jogger pants, speaking to Osamu’s growing collection of succulents. Osamu’s panic dissipates.

Keiji seems startled by the sudden sound of Osamu enter the room, concern painted on his face. “You okay?” he asks, worried expression in place as he holds a coffee mug in his hands. A bird flies past the window, a resounding honk bringing his attention back to the man on the floor.

Wordlessly, Osamu sits behind him, wrapping his arms around him and putting his cheek against his exposed shoulder.

“I think we established we have feelings for one another, but I don’t know if I can date you when your stubble is digging into my skin like this.”

Osamu smiles, eyes too tired to keep open. “Oh, so it’s jus’ ‘like’?”

Akaashi reaches over to flick his forehead with a freed-up hand, Osamu wincing in pain.

“You still have the jade I gifted you,” Akaashi notes after what feels like an hour, both hands back around the hot mug. Osamu nods against him, eyes still closed and breath softly fanning against Akaashi’s skin.

“It’s the fastest growin’ one,” Osamu points out. He doesn’t see it, but he _hears_ the moment Akaashi smiles.

“I wouldn’t mind if ya gifted me more out of—”

The white apartment door swings open, Atsumu whistling to a tune Osamu’s brain recognizes on this week’s top pop songs while dragging his luggage in. They both freeze, surprised to see him back this early.

Atsumu doesn’t pay them any mind, twirling in a little dance as he enters the living space and stops dead in his tracks when he sees them. He blinks at them owlishly before letting out a small “oh”.

His face shifts into confusion before realization hits him like a deer caught in headlights. “Oh man! Does this mean I can’t steal Keiji from ya now?”

In Osamu’s embrace, Keiji startles when for the second time this morning, a completely still Osamu bolts across the apartment. This time, it’s to chase his selfish, annoying, and ugly twin brother.

Akaashi’s laughter rings in his ears and it feels like home.

The plant of last love in Osamu’s stomach blooms its first flower, a silent promise of the bountiful amount yet to come.

🍙 🍙 🍙

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to: everyone who DID anticipate this, osaaka nation for the wonderful content, sandra for motivating me when I no longer even felt like breathing, to kylie for assuring me my take on love was valid, and last but not least arwa because without u, this wouldn't even be a thing. thanks for telling me my writing's good enough. ily.
> 
> here's an [osaaka playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5CR4kzcd37kJebUlG8XDNW?si=I5omBggPS1OhMfyZOCobqw) for your feelings or whatever.
> 
> IT HAS ART NOW!!! this [lovely piece](https://twitter.com/obitosgoggles/status/1349919436182966272?s=20) and [incredible art from sandra](https://twitter.com/tinycpr/status/1354301763466092545)
> 
> thanks for reading! I love comments so if u want.... *pulls out tray of cake* leave one in exchange for cake :3c


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